Nightfall came like it always did in this part of the world. One moment, it was daylight, and the next, a swift transition through twilight to darkness, lit only by the stars. Cruz told them it was time to go and ordered them on their feet. Stood over Heller, who was still trying to recover from the blow to his head and asked if he needed help.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Very well, we’re leaving right now. Everything’s quiet, so we’ll get out while the going’s good. You sure you’re okay to walk?”

  Before he could answer, Vien grabbed Cruz’s sleeve and jerked him around. “You can’t leave now, not when we’re so close. My husband is there, I know it, and if we don’t get him out now, it’ll be too late. They’ll ship him off to the Soviet Union with the other prisoners, and he’ll be gone forever.”

  “We don’t know for sure he’s there, so it would be foolish to do anything stupid. Come to that, we don’t know for sure the camp is there. It was just a guess. I’m sorry, Vien, we’re leaving.”

  “I won’t leave!” she spat, “Dao, you have to help me find him.”

  “I…uh…” He regarded Cruz for several seconds, looked at the other men, who’d picked up their gear and nodded eagerly, looking ready to leave. McGuigan, Lynch, and even Collins and Akulov. He looked at Heller, who returned a steady gaze. Looked at Ripley, who stared back at him. “I’m staying.”

  He didn’t like it. If they had been surrounded by hostiles, he’d have balled them out. He did his best, keeping his voice low. Threatened them with everything, said they throw the book at them for desertion in the field. Said they’d lose everything. He looked at Heller. “They’ll bust you down to private. And you, Ripley, you can forget any plans for a career in this man’s army. You’re finished, do you hear me? Next stop, the stockade.”

  Ripley replied in a bored tone, “As long as it’s not Vietnam.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “You’re just making things worse for yourself.”

  He was hopping from foot to foot, so Lynch would’ve supplied him with his latest fix. They walked away. Cruz looked back once with a sorrowful expression, shook his head, and turned away. They crossed a narrow causeway between two rice paddies and disappeared into the thick foliage.

  “What now?”

  He glanced at Ripley. “We look for them. He spotted those tracks two klicks northwest, so we start there. Find them and see where they lead. If Akulov was right, they’ll lead us to the camp.”

  He felt good when he saw Vien staring at him, her eyes filled with admiration. Maybe something else, but he hoped not. Not here, not now. In the unlikely event they made it back, the last thing he wanted was to put a wedge between her and her husband. He pictured the headlines and almost smiled. ‘American soldier responsible for ending relations between Vietnam and the United States.’

  No way, Jose, I’ve got enough problems.

  Ripley took point, using the compass Heller loaned him to head in the right direction. He kept the pace slow to give him a chance to keep up. Vien walked alongside him, and Dao brought up the rear. Several times, they had to duck into cover when they almost ran into enemy patrols. Akulov had been right, they were everywhere.

  What was it he said? Like fleas on a dog. Fleas with AK-47s.

  It took them three hours to cover those two klicks. They emerged on the path that seemed like a possibility, but they found nothing. In almost total darkness, with the jungle canopy keeping out most of the starlight, it was impossible to see anything. They had no choice but to duck into cover. Once again, it rained, and like so often did, the rain fell like water spilling over a cliff. In their misery they huddled beneath the leaves, crouched down on their haunches, unable to sit on the wet, muddy ground, and the necessity to keep out of sight meant they couldn’t stand.

  When dawn broke, they were cramped, cold, stiff, and exhausted. Most of all, they were soaking wet. When he was sure they were alone, Ripley went back onto the path and almost immediately found the boot prints Akulov had described. American boot prints. They led both ways, north and south, which meant a large group of men frequently passed this way and then returned. Unsure which way to try first, he decided to go north. They hadn’t gone more than five hundred meters when they heard it. The sound of metal on wood, like axes hacking into trees.

  Something was happening, and they moved off the path and threaded their way through the trees. Huge, ancient trunks, interlaced with hanging vines, the ground thick with ferns, and a stream ran through the middle. A real stream with moving water, not one of the stagnant, stinking pools they often encountered, this was the real deal. The noise was louder, no question, a work gang was chopping down trees. Soldiers or civilians? Or neither.

  Heller felt much better, his head clearer, and he told them to wait while he sneaked forward to check it out. He dropped onto all fours and crawled toward the stream. When he reached it, he found to his surprise the water was clear. He leaned down and took a cautious sip. Lifted his head, and his hair almost stood on end when he saw a man on the other side of the stream. Less than two feet away, looking at him. An American. He guessed he’d once been muscular and well-built. An intelligent face that would’ve once been smooth, probably handsome. In civilian life, wouldn’t have looked out of place on the executive floor of a large corporation. But not now. His flight suit was baggy and his skin a mass of suppurating sores. Beneath the beard and the sores, he had a faint resemblance to Heller. About the same build, same color hair similarly cropped, Marine style, he could almost have been his brother. Although the eyes were different, dark brown, almost black, and unlike the rest of him, as clear as the water in the stream.

  “Who are you?”

  No question, a voice as American as apple pie. He answered automatically. “Heller, Master Sergeant. Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol Group, 52nd Infantry Regiment.”

  “Thank God!” the man murmured, “Keep your voice down. They’re not far away.” He didn’t need to say who ‘they’ were, “You’ve come to get us out.”

  He didn’t answer for several seconds. Didn’t want to build the guy’s hopes up. “That’s why we came, but things aren’t going to plan. We’ll do what we can, but first I need to know the setup. How many of you?”

  “At the last count, seventy-six.”

  “Uh-huh. How close is the camp?”

  “About one klick. Mister, what did you mean, things aren’t going to plan? You probably don’t realize it, but they’re shipping us out to the Soviet Union. The motherfuckers sold us to the Russians.”

  “Do you know how soon?”

  He shook his head. “A few days, maybe two or three.” He gave him a sardonic look, “Bastards don’t give us an itinerary. All they do is gloat over what they plan to do with us. I haven’t given you my name. Colonel Richard Anderson, U.S. Marine Corps.”

  “Carrier pilot?”

  “That’s affirmative. I was flying a Skyhawk on an escort mission when I took a missile east of Hanoi. That was around three years ago. Since then, I’ve been in limbo, a kind of no man’s land. As far as I know, my survival went unreported, so nobody knows I’m still alive.”

  He jerked his head around when he heard harsh, Vietnamese voices coming closer. “I have to go, or I’ll get a beating.”

  “Stick with it, Colonel. We’ll follow you back to the camp and see what we’re up against.”

  He nodded. “Jesus Christ, you have to get us out. How many of you?”

  “Two, and an ARVN Ranger. I guess that makes three.”

  “Three! Christ, there are thirty or forty soldiers guarding the camp. You don’t stand a chance!”

  “Maybe. Colonel, the nephew of the South Vietnamese President was kidnapped recently, do you know anything about him?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Quan?”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Yeah, we saw him, but not for long. He demanded to speak with the camp commandant and said he wanted to make a deal. They took him away, and he never came back. One of our guys is fluent in Vietnamese, and he heard the guards talking about him and grinning. He fixed up to return to Saigon in return for passing on information about South Vietnamese operational plans. Bastard, he’s selling out his own people. I’d like to see him in hell.”

  “He’s still in the camp?”

  “Oh, yeah, they fixed him up with a cozy hut all to himself. If it’s the last thing I do before we leave this place, I want to throttle the life of the little shit.” He looked into his eyes and fixed him with an intense stare, “Do you think there’s any chance we can make it?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  He didn’t mention the rest of the Team had departed. It wouldn’t help that most of his squad had abandoned the mission because they considered it hopeless. He edged back into the bushes and watched the Colonel walk away. Two soldiers appeared, shouted at him, and one casually brought his rifle up and swung the butt against his head, so hard Anderson fell. He dragged himself to his feet and walked away, prodded by the rifle barrels of the two soldiers.

  Heller had seen enough. Enough to make him more determined than ever to get those guys out. It would be tough. They had little time, and even if they managed to free them from the camp, getting them away from North Vietnam would be even tougher. He rejoined the others and passed on what Colonel Anderson had told him. He expected Vien to take it badly, but ‘badly’ didn’t describe her reaction. She went ballistic.

  “The dirty, rotten, backstabbing weasel. After everything I’ve done for him, supported him when he could’ve lost everything. He was into gambling and acquired huge debts, and I negotiated to pay them off. He was also addicted to drugs, and I arranged for him to go into a private clinic to shake the habit. There were many times when his behavior insulted other members of his family, as well as high-ranking government ministers and senior ARVN officers. Every time, I smoothed things over, but I never expected he’d turn traitor.”

  “If he was that bad, why did you stay with him?” Heller murmured, “Guys like that, most wives would’ve got out and left them to clean up their own shit.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Being married to Quan gave me huge respect within South Vietnamese society. Despite having to deal with his many stupidities, I was able to live the high life. Luxury, of course, but I had power. Do you know how that feels?” He didn’t know. Had never had any kind of power, other than the power of his fists and a gun, so he didn’t reply, “If I’d left Quan, I’d have lost everything. I could’ve lost my life as well. He’d never forgive me, never forgive the insult to his macho pride. I wanted to get him back so things could be like they used to be, but not like this. The thought of living with a traitor disgusts me.”

  He nodded slowly. It changed everything, and yet it changed nothing. Those prisoners, the MIAs, were there. They’d found them, and they had a short window of time to get them out. How they’d get them out, and how they’d get them away he’d no idea. Then there was the question of how to deal with Quan. There was a simple answer, but killing a VIP was not a decision to be taken lightly.

  “If we get them out, what do we do about him?”

  “Kill him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He looked at Dao. “What’s your take on this?”

  “Sergeant Heller, I’m an officer in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. Any man who turns traitor deserves to die. There’s no discussion.”

  “I hear you.”

  They got as close to the timber-cutting operation as possible without being spotted and waited out the rest of the day. Watching the ragged scarecrows wielding axes, cutting down trees, and attacking the fallen trunks with long, rusty saws. There was no power, and they’d constructed an old-fashioned saw pit, placing the trunk over the pit, with one man below and one above, sawing the timber into roughhewn planks.

  It was painfully slow. The tools they used were old and looked blunt, and the prisoners didn’t look in any shape to be carrying out heavy, manual labor. The longer they watched, the more he determined to do something to get them out. Even if they could overcome the guards, there was a question of getting away from North Vietnam, and he didn’t have the first idea of how to do it.

  An hour before nightfall, the guards began barking orders, kicked, beat, and pushed the prisoners to bunch them together, and led them away. They followed, keeping as far back as possible. They reached the camp, and it looked to be a daunting prospect. They’d constructed the place beneath the jungle canopy, so it was invisible from the air. Four watchtowers in the tops of tall trees kept an eye on what went on below. They’d surrounded the place with barbed wire, and while they watched, they saw them push the prisoners through the gate of an inner compound, also surrounded with barbed wire, and close the gate with a chain and padlock.

  Even Vien was aghast at the scale of the problem facing them. There were guards everywhere, and he estimated Colonel Anderson’s guess of thirty to forty as on the low side. As well as the dozen soldiers who’d escorted the prisons back from the work site, there were soldiers everywhere. Patrolling the outer perimeter and patrolling the perimeter of the inner compound.

  They watched until darkness fell, looking for a weakness in the defenses, but they didn’t see one. As it got dark, they changed the guard, and stationed even more soldiers around the camp, all equipped with flashlights. It was easy to spot them, like fireflies in the darkness, but there was no question of jumping them. They were always within eyeshot of other soldiers, and the moment he tried anything, it’d bring every soldier down on their heads.

  Ripley was lying next to him in a dense thicket of bamboo, watching, calculating, and he came up with nothing. “There’s no way we can get close enough to hit them, Sarge. We’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Like what?”

  A shrug. “Dunno. I guess we need a Trojan horse.” He grinned, “Plenty of timber if we decided to build one.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t plan on constructing anything. They had to find a way in fast, not screw around constructing wooden horses. They stayed in position, watching, but there was no sign of the Viets relaxing. By 01.00 they were as vigilant as ever, the firefly pinpricks of light continuing to wander around the inner and outer perimeters. Ripley was right, it wasn’t gonna happen. There was no way in.

  They edged back and found a secluded place to get some sleep. He didn’t sleep well and woke every hour or so. Just before dawn, he had an idea kind of like constructing a wooden horse, but it might just work.

  * * *

  On a hunch, Colonel Anderson indicated he was going to the stream to slake his thirst. They were used to it, and over the months and years, he’d convince them if he didn’t get water, he wouldn’t be able to work. He was hoping to see the American soldier again, desperately anxious to know if he’d worked a way for them to get away. The guy was there, crouched in the bushes, and he emerged when he saw him.

  “Sergeant, we’re getting kind of desperate. Have you come up with anything?”

  “Maybe.”

  He told him they’d have to get out of sight into the bushes, and Anderson nodded. “It’ll have to be quick. If I take too long, well, I guess you saw what happened yesterday.”

  “I saw.” He quickly explained what he had in mind.

  Anderson grimaced. “You know they’ll kill you if they find out?”

  “Colonel, they’ve been trying to kill me for a long time. A guy can get used to it.”

  Chapter Eight

  The guards shouted at the prisoner leaning down to drink from the stream. He’d been too long, and one soldier delivered the anticipated blow with the butt of his rifle. The man in the flight suit staggered with the power of the blow and dropped to his knees. They hit him again, this time in the small of the back, and he almost collapsed to the ground in agony, but he managed to get to his feet and allowed them to prod him back toward the work site.

  Walking was difficult, not because of the beating, but because of the two assault rifles, one concealed in each pants leg of the flight suit. He also had two handguns, the Makarovs, hung around his neck inside the flight suit, so they hung down over his chest. Heller didn’t have such a thick growth of beard like Colonel Anderson, just several days growth, so he’d smeared mud over his face and prayed they wouldn’t notice.

  They didn’t notice. All they were interested in was the round-eye in a ragged flight suit. They rejoined the rest of the prisoners, and a man also wearing a ragged flight suit waved a greeting and walked toward him. Like Anderson, he was a pale, emaciated, shambling skeleton. He looked like he would’ve once been well-built and muscular. Not anymore. He was still dressed in the flight suit he’d been wearing when he was shot down. When he got close, his eyes narrowed in puzzlement.

  “Who are you? You’re not Anderson.”

  “No, I’m not Anderson. The name’s Heller, Master Sergeant Heller. Infantry Recon.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You mean… you’ve come to get us out?”

  “That was the idea, but things aren’t working out the way we planned. Who are you?”

  “Captain Marek Kowalski, navigator, B-52. Shot down south of Hanoi about one year ago.”

  “Well, Captain Kowalski, we’ll do our best to help you break out, but it’s not looking good.”

  “Break out? There’s no way we can get past the soldiers, not without weapons.”

  He told him about the two AK-47s and the two Makarovs.

  “After they escort the prisoners back to the camp, I’ll need three men who know how to shoot. I want you to organize the prisoners into squads, and we’ll take the guards two at a time. We use the guns to threaten. If there’s any shooting, we’re screwed.”