How did it get here?

  They didn’t speak to him. Didn’t explain, just pushed him into the cabin of the ancient biplane, a Soviet Antonov AN-2. There were just four seats, but none for him. They shoved him onto the grubby floor and left him with two guards standing over him, rifles pointed at his belly. He’d expected better treatment. After all, he was a VIP, well-connected inside the Saigon regime, but they answered his protests with silence. The day was long, the humidity intense, and his clothes wet with sweat. He was hungry and thirsty, but nobody supplied food or drink.

  Darkness fell, and it was almost a relief when things started to happen. They pulled him into a seat, so he was able to look outside and see what was going on. A lot was going on. Soldiers were pulling aside what he’d assumed were trees. They weren’t trees, but timber constructions shaped and painted to resemble trees, so the airfield would be invisible from the air.

  They pulled aside the camouflage netting, and he breathed a sigh of relief as fresh air entered the cabin. Two more soldiers entered, and then a man he took to be the pilot, dressed in a flight suit emblazoned with a yellow star on a red background, the emblem of Communist North Vietnam.

  The wait was almost over. Several minutes later, the single Shvetsov nine-cylinder engine started, faltered and coughed for several seconds, before it burst into life. The pilot wasn’t wasting any time. He gunned up the engine to maximum and taxied along the improvised strip. At the far end he slowed the engine to idle. The strip was too narrow to make the turn, but soldiers grabbed the tail and swung it around, so it was pointing into wind. The wind blowing from the required direction, the north. The revolutions crescendoed to maximum, he released the brakes, and the ancient biplane trundled forward slowly.

  It may have been old, but it’d been designed and built to take off and land on short, often remote, rough and improvised airfields. The Antonov climbed into the air and flew on, staying low, almost brushing the jungle canopy to avoid showing on enemy radar. Even though Cambodia was nominally neutral, the Communist Khmer Rouge had been fighting to bring down the government, and in response, Phnom Penh and Saigon launched frequent patrols and overflights to check activity by either the Khmer Rouge or its de facto ally, Hanoi.

  He wasn’t worried they’d kill him. He was a valuable hostage, and he considered it most likely Saigon would offer to make an exchange. The idea of an escape attempt never entered his head. Why would he try to escape? Sooner or later, they’d work something out, so why risk his neck? Although during the time spent waiting in the tunnel, he’d been doing a lot of thinking. If they didn’t fix up a prisoner exchange, there was another alternative, one he was more than prepared to consider.

  The aircraft droned on through the night, and after several hours landed on another remote airfield, the runway lit by rows of oil lamps. The moment the Antonov was on the ground, soldiers rushed to extinguish the lamps. More soldiers dragged a handcart heavily laden with fuel drums toward the aircraft, connected a long hose to the fuel tank, and began the laborious process of refueling the Antonov with a hand pump. The moment they were done, they disconnected the hose and dragged the cart away. They started the engine at the exact moment as they relit the oil lamps. Immediately the pilot took off along the dimly lit strip to continue their journey north.

  The aircraft droned on for hours. They crossed the border into Laos, turning east to cross the border into North Vietnam. They landed on another disguised jungle strip, and Quan sensed they were back in Vietnam, although this time, North Vietnam. The journey had come to an end. As the aircraft rolled to a stop, the cabin door opened, and a man rushed forward with a low flight of steps. The guards gestured for him to get out, and he got to his feet. Almost fell, stiff and wobbly after so long spent in such a cramped position. He held the door frame, steadied himself for several seconds, and started down the steps.

  A senior officer of the PAVN, the People’s Army of Vietnam, was waiting for him, his uniform richly decorated with a forest of medals. Unlike the naked hostility of the soldiers who’d abducted him and guarded him during the journey, this man looked anything but hostile.

  The lips smiled a friendly greeting, but the smile didn’t extend to his eyes. Cold, hard, calculating eyes. “Nguyen Huy Quan, welcome to North Vietnam. My name is Commissar General Tran Khiem. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  He was like the cat that’d got the cream, and Quan felt his stomach churning. This was a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if it suited his purposes. He warned himself to be very careful. “What happens now, General?”

  The fixed smile remained. “We will take you to a safe place where we have other prisoners, mostly American, awaiting onward transport.”

  “Transport to where?”

  This time, the smile reached the eyes, like the guy was enjoying himself at Quan’s expense. Which he probably was. “To Russia. Moscow, where else? We have already contacted our Soviet friends, and I assure you they can’t wait to meet you.”

  “What happens in Moscow?”

  Khiem spread his hands, palms upward as if he was at a loss. “Quan, I cannot say. Perhaps nothing untoward, if you cooperate. If not…”

  He didn’t need to finish. After so many years of war, the South Vietnamese had a vivid imagination, and he’d seen plenty of things he’d soon forget.

  Khiem pointed toward a battered Soviet jeep parked nearby. “Please, get in, and we will take you to your temporary home.”

  * * *

  With no alternative, they followed the track in broad daylight, as broad as daylight ever gets beneath the ominous, dark loom of the jungle. They felt reasonably secure in a North Vietnamese truck, with two Vietnamese in the front. Vien was still dressed as a peasant. Dao had removed his combat jacket and shrugged into a threadbare tunic he’d found pushed to the side of the driver’s seat.

  The journey would be short, and they estimated the risk they would be taking. Before the enemy discovered what’d happened to their soldiers and started a massive search. They knew they were inside North Vietnam, and it wouldn’t take them long to discover how many men were missing. Discover at least some of their bodies, and they’d be pissed. They covered the first half of the journey without hitting any problems. The second part wasn’t going to be so easy. Not when they came to the checkpoint before a ramshackle wooden bridge across a deep ravine. Two Viets flagged them down.

  Through a crack in the side of the cargo space, Heller watched what was happening. It didn’t look like it was anything untoward. The soldiers were relaxed, almost friendly, as friendly as a North Vietnamese Communist ever got. They listened to Dao shoot them a line about what they were doing and gave no sign they disbelieved him. So far so good, and Heller let out his breath. It was going to be okay.

  He’d let out his breath his too soon. A soldier opened the passenger door and beckoned for Vien to climb out. Thankfully, she wasn’t carrying a weapon, and she kept up the pretense of a relaxed and friendly exchange. Until the soldier extended his arm and grabbed her around the waist. She shouted a protest, but he was big, heavily muscled, built like a wrestler, and he lifted off her feet and carried her toward a shelter, a lean-to constructed of bamboo and palm leaves.

  She was sensible enough not to put up a fight, although he guessed how she must be feeling after the first time it’d happened inside the village. On that occasion, she’d killed the men responsible. This close to the target, she couldn’t take the chance, so she did the other thing. Nothing. Let the guy go ahead, and she’d be doing her best to close her ears to his animal grunting. After several minutes, he groaned with relief as he finished.

  It wasn’t finished, not for her. The other soldier waited outside the lean-to, and as the first man emerged, he stepped inside. Through the open doorway, he could see the girl lying on her back, her pants removed, and her knees still parted. The second soldier unfastened his belt, pulled down his pants, and knelt between her legs. Shoved into her, and Heller caught a glimpse of her agonized expression before the guy’s body hid her and he began pumping.

  When he was done, he stepped out from the lean-to, adjusting his belt and straightening his uniform. Vien walked past and climbed back into the truck. Her expression was blank. She didn’t look around, didn’t spare him a glance. They waved the truck to move on. Dao started the engine and drove away.

  They’d made less than two klicks when they rounded a bend and hit the next obstacle. A ramshackle wooden bridge that didn’t look strong enough to bear the weight of a donkey cart, constructed over a deep ravine. Dao slowed as they drew nearer.

  He shouted from the rear. “Do they have sentries posted?”

  “I don’t see any.”

  That was strange. He understood every bridge in North Vietnam was guarded. Probably not guarded against an enemy incursion, but soldiers on the bridge could monitor and record every citizen who crossed. A way to control the peasant population. And to punish and re-educate them if they failed to go where Hanoi ordered. As they got nearer, Dao saw them.

  “I was wrong. There’re soldiers on the other side. I make it four.”

  He stopped the truck to give them time to work out their next move. They’d got past the previous checkpoint only because Vien had allowed those two soldiers to rape her. It wasn’t going to happen again. Not on his watch. Even if she let them have their way as a means of gaining a free pass to continue on their way, he couldn’t go along with it. There had to be another way. Yet how? They were so close to the objective, yet so far.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised the area was so well guarded, especially now, when they knew an enemy squad was operating in the area.

  “We have to take them!” Cruz snarled, once again fired up with energy. “Dao, drive over the bridge, pedal to the metal. We’ll open fire as we drive past.”

  Lynch giggled. “Man, a drive-by shooting. Bring it on.”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Heller warned, “The only way to get any closer to the objective is to sneak in under the radar. Sneaking in doesn’t mean killing every gook that gets in our way. Sure, sometimes it has to be done, but done right. Racing across in the truck and spitting bullets would alert every soldier within earshot. Not what most men would call sneaky.”

  The Lieutenant didn’t agree. “Unless there’s another way past that ravine, we have to do it. Any ideas, Dao?”

  “If there was another way across, they wouldn’t have built the bridge.”

  “There is another way,” McGuigan growled, “The little lady knows how it works. She’d probably enjoy it.”

  There was a long, embarrassed silence, only broken when Heller grunted, “Say that again, and I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  The big man shrugged. “I just thought…”

  “Thinking isn’t what you do best, McGuigan. Button it.”

  He looked at Cruz. “There’s only one option, and that’s like I said, the sneaky option. I’m going over there.”

  “You think they’ll smile and wave you past?”

  “There won’t see me. I’ll swing across beneath the bridge, out of sight. When I get there, I’ll use the knife to take them out, no shooting. Hide the bodies, and with any luck, they’ll think they’ve gone AWOL.”

  He climbed out of the truck and headed into a nearby stand of bushes and thick foliage, so he could reach the bridge unseen. He’d gone a few paces when he realized he wasn’t alone. Ripley was following. He grinned. “Sarge, I don’t care how good you are with a knife, four against one is bad odds. I’m coming with you.”

  He didn’t argue. So far, Tom Ripley had shown himself to be calm and sensible, a man who didn’t take too many risks and wasn’t likely to screw it up. He nodded, and they pushed their way through the trees. They came out close to the timber posts buried in the ground. They supported the timber structure hanging on thick woven vines suspended from similar posts on the other side. They looked over the edge of the ravine, and they’d have to do it the hard way. On this side, it was sheer. The only way to get below the bridge was to hang over the edge of the ravine and ease themselves along, moving from hand-to-hand, and praying they didn’t spot them from the other side.

  The bridge wasn’t far away, maybe four meters. He went first, hung over the deep ravine and started moving toward the bridge supports. Ripley followed, and they made it without any sign the enemy spotted them. That was when they hit an obstacle that threw his plan awry. The soldiers on the other side had a clear view of anyone who tried to cross, but to prevent anyone from swinging beneath the bridge like they’d intended, they’d threaded razor wire around the bridge timbers, making it impossible to use them as handholds.

  He looked at Ripley, clinging next to him on the edge of the ravine. “I guess you know there’s only one way to do this.”

  “The hard way?”

  “Is there any other? How’re your climbing skills?”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Now is the time to get in some practice. We have to climb down, cross the floor of the ravine, and climb up the other side.”

  He muttered something about how he should’ve taken his mother’s advice and joined the American Red Cross. He was like that, calm, laconic. Able to crack a joke when the odds were against them. Heller found the first foothold and eased himself down, he followed. They climbed slowly down, taking an hour to reach the bottom. They were fortunate. In many places the rocky sides of the ravine had cracked and split apart, which made the descent possible. They reached the bottom, and both men breathed a sigh of relief. Incredibly, they’d made it without mishap.

  Heller looked up, and the soldiers guarding the opposite side of the bridge couldn’t see them. They crossed to the other side and began the ascent. The going was easier, the rocky wall sloped, and within twenty minutes, they were close to the top. That was when disaster almost struck. He put his hand into the next crack in the rock and a bird flew out, screeching in fury that the human had invaded its home. The surprise almost caused him to slip, but he clung on, regained his balance, and they waited in silence.

  It didn’t seem possible the soldiers above hadn’t heard the commotion, but whatever the reason, nobody glanced over the edge to check. Maybe they were used to birds screeching, or maybe they couldn’t be troubled to check it out. Both men had unslung their rifles, selected full auto, and waited for a shout of discovery from above. If they’d been spotted, there’d be no further need for silence. Just spray as many bullets as they could toward the enemy. Kill as many as possible. If they got them all, it wouldn’t make any difference. The shooting would bring the enemy crawling around like flies on horse shit. The mission would be over, and the only option was to bug out. With just a faint hope of getting back alive, and conscious they’d left those MIAs to the fate that awaited them. The Russians, Moscow, the Serbsky Institute, and permanent, incurable insanity.

  They climbed the short distance to the top and slid out at the opposite side of the bridge from the soldiers. Getting to them wouldn’t be easy. They’d cleared the foliage back from the edges as far as fifty meters. Heller poked his head out the side of the structure and spotted them twenty meters away. Four men, relaxed, chatting to each other and smoking. They weren’t keeping watch, but by the time they’d covered the twenty meters to take them down with knives, the guns would be spitting bullets.

  “We need to get them closer.”

  He looked at Ripley. “You have any ideas?”

  “Just one.”

  He explained what he had in mind. An act of desperation, but they were desperate men. “Do it.”

  They readied their combat knives, both Marine Corps, blackened, standard-issue Ka-Bars. Both blades sharpened to perfection. While Heller waited, hiding behind the bridge supports, Ripley crawled to the edge of the ravine, cupped his hands, and gave out a piercing scream. Sound does strange things. On this occasion, it was outright weird. The scream echoed around the walls of the ravine and gave it an eerie, spine-tingling quality. A ghostly cry that anyone of a nervous disposition may’ve attributed to a long-dead spirit returning to earth.

  The scream was so weird, it would’ve been impossible for any human being to ignore it. Despite everything else, the North Vietnamese soldiers were human beings, and they ran to the edge of the ravine to find out what was happening. They found out, but not the way they’d expected. There were no injured people, no resurrected ghouls, just two American soldiers lying in wait with two American knives.

  They’d worked out the only way to do it was for each to take two men, bring them down, and kill them with some fancy knife work. When they were three meters away, Heller went for the two on the left. They saw him coming at the last moment, but not soon enough to start shooting. He covered the last meter in a flying leap, hooked his left hand around his target’s neck, and plunged the knife point first into his throat.

  Blood fountained from the gaping wound. The guy was out of it, and he pushed him away, turning his attention to his second target. This time it wasn’t going to be so easy. The guy had time to recover from his shock at the sudden attack and was more ready to defend himself. Heller made a grab for him, but he stepped back, his hand missed, and he brought up his AK. If he got off just one shot, it could be the one shot that gave everything away, and in desperation he dived at him, this time feet first, and kicked the rifle away. He landed heavily with the Viet leaping on top of him. The guy was both heavy and strong. He bent back Heller’s wrist to force him to drop the knife, and when he was unarmed, wrapped his powerful fingers around his neck.

  He fought back hard, but the Viet’s hands were like mechanical grabs. He was determined to kill this round-eye, and his hands tightened inexorably as Heller felt his head beginning to swim from lack of oxygen. He had to breathe, had to find some way to unlock that iron grip. He hammered at the guy with his fists, and it didn’t make a difference. He was like a rock, impervious to the blows. His face was mere inches away, and he saw him smile, exposing the blackened and rotting teeth. He smelled the meal he’d eaten earlier, the powerful, gut-churning odor of rancid food, smelled some nasty, pungent herbal odor. That’d be what they’d been recently drinking.