The odor disgusted him, the soldier disgusted him, and the idea of dying in this place at the hands of this creature disgusted him the most. He had a final trick up his sleeve to attempt, and summoning every last ounce of his remaining strength, he brought his knee up into the man’s groin.

  He struck hard, and more by luck than judgment, hit him where it most hurt. The Viet screamed, but the hands were still locked. It wasn’t enough, and Heller reached up, bent his fingers into claws, and grabbed for his eyes. His right hand found the left eye, and he dug in. Hard. The scream was piercing, and when he looked up, he’d somehow managed to gouge out his eyeball, so it was hanging down a couple of inches below the socket.

  That got his attention!

  The fingers were still locked around his throat, and his lungs were on fire from lack of oxygen. He had to seize the moment, or it would be too late. It wouldn’t be easy concentrating with an eyeball hanging down in front of his face, so he reckoned he had him on the ropes.

  He brought the knee up again and hammered it into the groin, and this time the screech of agony was longer and louder. He hit him in the same place again and pushed his pain to the limits, and maybe beyond. He felt the hands easing their grip, so he wrenched them away. They let go and he breathed a thankful sigh of relief. The Viet had fallen to one side, but he was getting to his feet. A horrible sight, like something from an old horror movie, the eye hanging down, his face taut and etched with pain, his hands covering his groin to prevent a third assault on his manhood.

  Big mistake. Heller’s intention wasn’t to crush his testicles. He wanted something more permanent than making a Communist soldier high-pitched so he could sing like a female in some weird Asian musical. Permanent meant dead. He scooped up the knife he’d been forced to drop and threw himself at the man before he realized the danger.

  His right wrist still hurt badly, after the soldier had almost broken it to force him to drop the knife. He suspected he’d cracked a bone but hurt and cracked bones he could take care of later. An enemy soldier intent on killing him couldn’t wait. He aimed at the heart, and he didn’t make a mistake. Pushed the knife in with every bit of his remaining strength, and at first, he thought he’d made a mistake. It didn’t penetrate far enough, but the tip had glanced off a rib, and when he adjusted the angle a fraction, it went all the way.

  He died instantly. No question, the heart stopped. One moment he was grunting and gasping for breath, trying to ease the torture of his aching genitals, of his missing eye, and the next it was all over. Heller got to his feet, panting for breath, his throat on fire after the throttling he’d received. Looked over at Ripley, prepared to lend a hand, but there was no need. He’d made a better job of it than he. Two bodies lay on the ground. Unmoving. Ripley was calmly checking through their pockets.

  He looked around when he sensed movement behind him. Nodded. “All done?”

  “Just about. But it could’ve gone the other way. Next time, I’d appreciate a helping hand if things look tough.”

  A shrug. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  On the far side of the bridge, they’d seen the fight end. Dao had the engine running, and he edged forward onto the rickety structure, driving slowly across. They held their breath as they watched the bridge move alarmingly, but they managed to get across.

  Cruz surveyed the scene and nodded slowly. “We did okay. What about the bodies?”

  He’d worked out the answer to that. “Toss them in the truck, and we’ll lose them when we’re some distance away.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Get it done, we need to get on the road. Dao, how far would you estimate we have to travel before we reach the camp?”

  “Back there, they said something about eight klicks. We must have covered six, so that makes it another two before we reach the airfield they told us about.”

  “An airfield likely means soldiers. We need to check it out before we go much further.”

  Cruz looked eager. “Leave it to me, I’ll handle it.”

  He gave him a doubtful look. Once again, he had that glazed look in his eyes, like he wanted to take on the entire North Vietnamese Army single-handed. “You can’t do it alone, Lt.” He looked insulted and glared back at him, “Take a man with you.”

  “It might be an idea. Lynch, you’re with me.”

  He scowled. “Sonofabitch, why me? I’m wounded.”

  He hadn’t looked like the leg was causing him any trouble when he climbed out of the truck, but to make a point, he hobbled several paces to emphasize the injury.

  Cruz raised his voice and shouted. “I gave you an order, Private! Forget the wound and come with me.” He sounded angry.

  Lynch looked astonished. “What the fuck! After everything I’ve done for you!”

  The Lieutenant walked away, and after a brief hesitation, he followed, exaggerating the limp so much it looked ridiculous. They cleared as many signs of the fight as they could find. When they were done, Akulov, with his hunter’s instinct, went back over the ground, picking up small pieces of debris and smoothing the scuffed earth to hide what’d happened. He told Heller he’d need several hours to do a thorough job. They didn’t have several hours.

  Cruz and Lynch got back. Lynch looked delighted, the Lieutenant jumpy, dejected, like all the starch had gone out of him.

  “We’ve come up against a brick wall. There’s no way we can go any further. The good news is we found the airfield, but the bad news is the military encampment on the other side. It’s big, hundreds of soldiers, maybe battalion strength.”

  “Any sign of the camp?”

  “Nothing!” Lynch blurted, giving Cruz a hostile glare which he returned. Heller glanced from one to the other. Something happened out there. One moment they were bosom buddies, the next, they looked like they wanted to tear each other’s hearts out, “We’ve wasted our time. We need to head back to the coast and call in the choppers to take us back to the carrier.”

  The Lieutenant looked undecided. He had no doubts about anything. They’d come here to locate those men, and if they’d guessed right, they’d be holding Nguyen Huy Quan in the same place. They couldn’t be far away, two, maybe three klicks. They’d almost reached the objective. All that stood in their way was a battalion of North Vietnamese soldiers.

  “Lt, our mission is to find those men and to get them out. We have to go on.”

  He thought for several seconds and made up his mind. “No, Sergeant, that’s not the way it works. We don’t have to go on, not when the odds are that bad it would mean going to our deaths. Lynch is right. We have to pull out.”

  “No!”

  They looked at Heller. Looked at Vien. They’d both spoken at the same time, a single word that echoed around the open space. “What did I hear you say, Mister? Are you refusing to obey an order?”

  “Damn right I am. I haven’t come this far to abandon those men.”

  Before Cruz could answer, Vien strode forward and stood with her face pushed inches away from his. “My husband is in that place, and we must get him out. You know the alternative, Lieutenant?”

  He hesitated. He knew the alternative. The President and his wife had made it crystal clear. They’d kick MACV out of Vietnam, and they could deal with the Communists. Realizing the worst fears of the White House, a domino effect that would sweep across Southeast Asia, with one country after another falling to the red tide. Laos teetering on the brink, Cambodia a seething cauldron of Communist activity, with Thailand probably next in line.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he muttered, walking away as if to wash his hands of the mission.

  They’d reached a stalemate. An officer who looked like he was about to disintegrate. Men like Lynch and maybe McGuigan. Men who could be close to mutiny. He thanked God Ripley was good people, and so were Akulov and Collins. Men he could rely on. He’d no idea what they’d be up against if they did reach the camp, and the last thing he needed was for men to give up the fight at this late stage. Dao was grim-faced. Vien wore a peculiar expression, and when he looked closer, he spotted the dried tears on her cheeks. She hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t forgiven her terrible experience. Had it all been for nothing?

  “We go on.”

  “Past a battalion of North Vietnamese regulars?” McGuigan sneered, “What’re you gonna do, scare them away?”

  The question made him think about something he’d forgotten. Something he’d buried deep inside his head. They were out on a limb, sure, surrounded by the enemy. What scared the North Vietnamese more than anything?

  “We need an airstrike.”

  Lynch sniggered. “You need your head testing, white boy. What you gonna do, send them a message with smoke signals?”

  “Private Lynch, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Let’s take a look at that camp, I want to see it.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “I need to send up smoke signals.”

  * * *

  An EA-6A, the electronic countermeasures version of the A-6 Intruder carrier-launched bomber, cruised over the endless, green spaces that covered the bulk of North Vietnam, outside of the main towns and cities. The aircraft flew a meandering, erratic course, so the enemy wouldn’t work out their focus of interest. They had a strictly defined focus of interest. An area of around one hundred square kilometers, the area where they suspected the enemy had secretly located a prison camp and squirreled away high-ranking prisoners, away from the prying gaze of the numerous aircraft that overflew the country. High-ranking prisoners, men who could be valuable to the regime. Men they’d want to disappear. The so-called MIAs.

  Major Vernon Watts scanned the sky ahead of them, searching for the signal. A white flare to unleash a squadron of fighter-bombers, Phantoms, and Skyhawks. Pound the crap out of the Commies. Payback for the cruelties they inflicted on downed aircrews. Watts was a stolid Bostonian, short and slight, an ideal size for the cramped cockpit of a carrier-launched bomber. He had pale skin and piercing blue eyes, with a forest of wrinkles below his forehead, a result of spending many hours each day searching the sky, searching for enemy MiGs and unexpected missile launches. A graduate of Harvard, he could’ve studied for longer to avoid the danger and inconvenience of serving in Vietnam. They’d told him the doctoral program was available to him if he so wished. He didn’t so wish. He was no draft dodger, choosing instead pilot training in the U.S. Navy. Choosing to serve his country in their hour of need.

  The man seated beside him was Lieutenant James Laverne, the ECM officer, who hailed from Michigan. Taller and chunkier than Watts, he took up more than his fair share of space in the right-hand seat of the cramped cockpit. Like Major Watts, his eyes stayed focused, except in his case, staring fixedly at the screens positioned in front of him. A cloud of missiles could come at them unexpectedly, and despite the impressive array of equipment the aircraft carried if he diverted his attention for a split second, their chances wouldn’t be great. Both men were mission-focused, looking for the signal from the ground. Both aware it could easily be them down there, at the mercy of the most brutal and cruel enemy on earth. He corrected himself, maybe that supreme accolade belonged to the Soviets whose brutality knew no bounds.

  He didn’t expect to see the white flare, although he was rooting for those guys on the ground to send one up. Scores of aircraft flew lazy circles off the coast to conserve fuel, waiting for the signal. When they’d learned the truth about where the Communists intended to send the MIAs, it was a nightmare enough to keep a man awake at night. And while in the air, to keep his finger on the missile launch and bomb release buttons.

  His EA-6A was shepherding the lead squadron of F4s, launched an hour before from the Forrestal. This was their third mission in two days. Attacking targets in Haiphong docks and circling back to search for the all-important signal. He didn’t expect to see it, didn’t believe a few men on the ground could penetrate the forbidding North Vietnamese defenses. Just thinking about it made him grimace.

  Shit, it’s bad enough in the air. On the ground, I’m betting it’s a whole lot worse.

  He was still trying to imagine what it was like down there in that green hell when the voice of Laverne came into his headset.

  “White smoke, white smoke. About three klicks southeast.”

  Watts jerked his mind back from daydreaming and stared down at the ground. Sure enough, a thin column of smoke spiraled upward.

  “Sighting confirmed. I’ll overfly it and confirm exact coordinates while you call it in. X marks the fucking spot. Dammit, we got ‘em!”

  Things happened fast. The Phantoms were trailing them ten klicks behind, but when they got the signal they went to afterburners, trailing black smoke from their engines, and in seconds were overhead. They continued broadcasting the location of the white smoke, and more aircraft appeared. Skyhawks, another Phantom squadron, and a squadron of A-6 bombers. The first Phantom fired a missile that exploded dead on target, sending up a pillar of smoke and fire. What followed was spectacular. While the Skyhawks ranged overhead, keeping a watchful eye out for missile batteries, they went in one by one and unloaded their ordnance, hitting the target area with everything they had.

  The air defenses came awake, and a cloud of missiles reached up to the sky. Once again, the Phantoms went to afterburners to avoid them, while the Skyhawks launched every missile in their inventory at the batteries on the ground. The Intruders, slower moving, came in last, and scores of bombs fell away from their underbellies. An air defense missile scored a hit on the poor engine of an Intruder. It immediately fell away and turned to the east to attempt to make it to the Forrestal. Two Skyhawks fell in alongside to keep station with the crippled aircraft, while two more computed the location of the battery by observing the trajectory of the missile launch, and the site got hit with a salvo of missiles.

  On the ground, everything was chaos. The attack had come out of nowhere. Soldiers, who minutes before had been congratulating themselves on their concealed location being sufficient protection from enemy airstrikes, were reevaluating as they ran every which way, trying to escape the vast conflagration that’d turned their cozy world into apocalyptic scenes of flame and high-explosive. And corpses. Scores, hundreds of corpses, and many more would soon join them as they succumbed to their injuries.

  In ten short yet hellish minutes, it was all over.

  Chapter Six

  They dug in deep to shelter from wayward bombs and missiles launched by the U.S. Navy, but this time those flyboys had done a good job, and they escaped unscathed. They gave it an hour, waited for the worst of the fires to die down, and while there was still sufficient smoke to hide them from the enemy gaze, sneaked past what was left of the military encampment. Twice, they encountered groups of panicked enemy soldiers, and each time they killed them. Ammunition from the destroyed encampment was cooking off like firecrackers, and they were able to take down escaping soldiers without fearing they’d be overheard. What was a few more bursts of automatic fire, when this small part of North Vietnam was a cauldron of exploding bullets.

  They made it past and continued toward where they assumed the prison camp would be located. The first few hundred meters were easygoing, and for several hundred meters more they followed one of several well-trampled paths, suggesting they had to be heading in the right direction.

  Cruz was upbeat, striding out ahead of them, passing Dao who was on point, only pausing to gun down a fleeing soldier. As the man went down, he looked back and shouted, “Heller, tell your men to keep up. We must be almost there, and if we hit them now while everywhere is in chaos after the airstrike, we’ll never get a better chance to get them out.”

  Heller didn’t pass on the order. If the Lieutenant wanted to race ahead and get himself shot, that was up to him. Dao was of the same opinion, and he slowed.

  “Your Lieutenant is gonna get himself into trouble. What’s his problem?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe he’s looking to get another promotion. Or maybe a medal.”

  “Or maybe something else.”

  He gave him a curious look. “Is there something I need to know?”

  Dao hesitated for several seconds before replying. “Sergeant, I don’t like to accuse a man of anything, not unless I’m certain. I’ll make an exception with Cruz. He acts like some of the time he’s high on something. Probably cocaine.”

  “Cocaine! You’re kidding me!”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve had men in my unit who acted just like that, and every time I found they were taking cocaine. You’ve seen what he’s like, sometimes itching to get into action, and other times he looks like he’s almost depressed.” He shrugged, “Of course, there could be another explanation. Some kind of mental disorder, perhaps, but I’d bet on cocaine.”

  “Shit!”

  He didn’t need to give it much thought. Everything Dao had said was correct. Lieutenant Cruz’s behavior was just like that of a cokehead. The last thing he needed, the last thing any of them needed. This was his third tour, and in that time, he’d seen plenty of junkies and plenty of dead junkies. To stay alive in Vietnam meant keeping a clear head. Keeping your eyes and ears open for the enemy, checking every second, checking again, and then again. This was one of those times when he didn’t have any answers. This situation was crazy, an officer clearly unfit to lead his men, yet engaged in a vital mission deep inside enemy territory.

  What the fuck do I do?

  He didn’t get to think anymore. Cruz shouted in a voice so loud they could’ve heard him in Haiphong over the noise of exploding bombs and missiles, “Hey! It’s an airfield.”

  Heller sprinted forward to shut him up. He reached him, and at first, he thought he’d snorted too much coke and was seeing things, but when he looked again, he saw it. An airfield, yet so heavily camouflaged, even on the ground it was almost impossible to spot unless a man walked into it.