“What then?”

  “We take the soldiers patrolling the inner compound first. Distribute their weapons, get outside and we’ll be armed, so we can deal with the rest of them.”

  His jaw dropped. “Just like that? I can’t see how we’ll get away with it. There’s sure to be some noise, and it will bring the whole camp down on our heads.”

  “I hear you, Captain. But in the absence of anything else, that’s what we’re gonna do.” The guy didn’t look convinced, and he put his hand on his shoulder to reassure him, “You’re getting out. Believe it.”

  To make it look good he took an axe and hacked at a massive tree trunk. By the time they called a halt, he hadn’t got halfway through. He didn’t plan on returning the next day to finish the job. They marched them back to the camp, sick, tired men every one of whom should’ve been in a hospital to treat their many injuries, poisonous bites, and jungle sores. Kowalski told him they did the best they could with plants and herbs they foraged in the jungle. “Sometimes they help, but most often they don’t. All we can do is keep trying.”

  He joined the rest of them in front of a battered oil drum positioned over a fire, filled with what the Captain told him was their evening meal. To make it look good, he helped himself to a bowl of the dubious-looking stew, took one mouthful, and spat it out.

  Heads turned to look at him, and he shrugged. “Maybe I’m not hungry.”

  Before the darkness fell, they were in for a big surprise. The sound of engines. Trucks moving slowly toward them, and minutes later they stopped outside the perimeter wire. Men looked at each other in despair. They didn’t need to ask why they were there. The answer was obvious. They’d brought forward the transfer to the ship that’d docked in Haiphong, ready to take them aboard for the journey to the Soviet Union. Destination, a notorious psychiatric clinic outside Moscow. The Communists had taken almost everything from them, and now they’d want to take all they had left. Their minds.

  Heller assumed correctly they wouldn’t leave until dawn, which gave them time to prepare. He distributed the weapons, an AK-47 to Kowalski, and the Makarovs to two further men. After that, it was a question of waiting. Soon, the night shift would arrive, and he pointed out that would be the best time to move. Before they settled into the familiar routine. There was nothing more he could do, nothing any of them could do. Except wait. He didn’t know what’d happened to the others, Ripley, Vien, and Dao, but they’d have to make out for themselves. With any luck, Anderson would’ve joined them, and they’d be preparing for the assault on the guards.

  The early arrival of the trucks was unexpected, but they’d have to deal with it. He formed them into four squads, each of four men. They went to different parts of the compound minutes before the shift changed, and a line of soldiers marched through the gate to carry out their routine inspection and search. He was out of sight inside the doorway of a hut, with another man behind him, and two others, both ARVN officers, positioned on the other side.

  One soldier entered the hut, while the other waited outside, like they always did. The first soldier walked past him. He stepped out and brought his arm up around the guy’s neck and clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “Call your friend inside. Tell him you found something.”

  He gurgled, his eyes wide with terror, shaking his head, and it was obvious he didn’t understand. One of the ARVN repeated the order, this time in Vietnamese. He nodded for Heller to free his mouth, and the guy obediently called to his friend, who entered the hut. It was almost a disaster. He sensed something was wrong and paused in the doorway. Heller shoved away the soldier he was holding, threw out a hand, grabbed his jacket and dragged him inside.

  He tried to resist, striking out to force him to let go, but the two ARVNs weren’t having any of it. Before he could shout a warning, they snatched his gun and beat him over the head with it. Not once, not twice, but a half-dozen times, and on the final blow, he heard a sickening ‘crack’ when they hit him too hard and cracked his skull. Maybe it wasn’t accidental, maybe they hadn’t hit him too hard. They looked mighty pleased with their handiwork. One ARVN popped his head out the doorway and looked back inside. “We’re clear,” he murmured.

  “Okay, distribute the weapons, and let’s hope the others did okay.”

  They emerged into the darkness, and he breathed a sigh of relief when there was no commotion, so it looked like they’d got away with it. Eight guards down, and now they had twelve weapons between them. A good start. Pity they were still heavily outnumbered, but that would change as they got more of them and relieved them of their weapons. All was going well, too well. Kowalski was next to him, but he forged ahead toward the compound gate that was still open.

  He gestured for the rest to follow. They’d done well, but once they got outside the compound, they’d have to face a lot more NVA soldiers, and the only way to even up the odds was by stealth. Taking them down in ones and twos, working their way through them, and grabbing more weapons until they had the upper hand. A man overtook him, glanced back at him and shouted, “We’ve got ‘em on the run. Let’s finish this!”

  It wasn’t the shout that made the difference. It was the burst of automatic fire that split the night. At least one enemy soldier had spotted them, had understood what was happening, and cut loose with his AK. Someone opened fire with a handgun, and the assault rifle went quiet. He ran toward the source of the gunfire, and an American prisoner was snatching up the AK and running toward two Viets. They saw each other at the same time, opened fire at the same time, and the American went down, but not before he’d hit the two soldiers.

  They’d fallen to the ground, wounded but still alive, and both painfully got back to their feet. A second later, a wave of escaped prisoners crashed into them. None were armed with rifles or pistols, but they’d managed to find wooden staves, probably intended for fence posts, and they used them like clubs. The Viet stood no chance. The prisoners grabbed their guns and ran on, leaving two more broken and bloody bodies on the ground. The enemy was starting to react, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before their early success turned to disaster. A pudgy-looking officer was shouting orders, and although he didn’t understand the Vietnamese, he was calling for his men to regroup and counterattack.

  The soldiers hesitated. Guard duty wasn’t for frontline soldiers, but strictly for the aged, the infirm, and those who’d managed to wangle a cushier number. The prisoners were hitting the guards with an increasing hail of bullets. This wasn’t cushy, this was a full-scale battle, and they’d come to this place to guard and torment prisoners of war. Some were looking around for escape, but the officer had taken out his pistol. While he watched, he shot a man in the back who’d turned to run away.

  The rest didn’t try to run. At a command from the officer, they formed a defensive line and opened fire. He knew what he had to do. Eliminate that guy, and most of the others would collapse like pricked balloons. He searched for a way to get close to him and spotted a way through between a larger hut and a parked truck. He sprinted toward it, shouting at Kowalski to cover him. The Captain got his back, knelt on the ground, and opened fire with the Makarov. His shooting attracted the attention of the Viets, and the rifles swung away from the prisoners tucked behind the huts to the easier target. His brave action enabled Heller to get into the shadows. He worked his way through, around the back of the large hut, and he was standing no more than ten feet away from the officer positioned at the rear of his men.

  It was too good to be true, too good an opportunity to miss. He raced out, grabbed him, and dragged him back behind the hut before his men, too preoccupied with shooting at the prisoners, noticed he was missing. He wore the uniform and rank tabs of a full colonel in the People’s Army of Vietnam, the PAVN. He relieved him of his pistol and put it to his head.

  “Mister, tell them to stop shooting.” All he got in return was a string of garbled Vietnamese, the guy protesting he didn’t understand any English, “That’s too bad. If you don’t understand English, you’re no use to me, so I have to kill you.”

  “Please! Tell me what you want, but don’t kill me.”

  “Tell them to cease fire. Now!”

  “But…”

  “Either they drop their guns and put up their hands, or you die.”

  “Yes, yes.” He barked out a stream of Vietnamese, and the firing slackened. Soldiers turned to stare and spotted the American holding a gun to his head. They didn’t drop their weapons, not at first, not until he screwed the barrel of the Makarov into the officer’s neck and repeated the order.

  They dropped the guns, and the prisoners ran out to pick them up. They herded the soldiers into a group and stood grinning. Slapping each other on the back. They’d achieved a momentous victory over the men who’d been the cause of so much suffering. This battle was over. Except it wasn’t. A burst of firing came from north of the camp, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness, and somebody was in trouble. But who?

  A voice called from the darkness. A moment later Colonel Anderson walked out into the open, still wearing Heller’s combat fatigues.

  “Who’s doing the shooting?”

  “No idea. It’s not our guys. They didn’t get that far.”

  In which case it had to be Ripley, Dao, and Vien. They were in trouble.

  “It’s my people. They must’ve run into a bunch of Viets who were trying to get away and got into a firefight. Get a half-dozen men together with rifles and ammo and tell them to follow.”

  He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. Just raced north in the direction of the shooting. He didn’t know what to expect, would it be just a couple of soldiers or a couple of dozen? As best he could in the darkness, ejected the magazine of his AK and checked the rounds. Eleven. Not that many, not if he came up against a determined enemy. He reinserted the magazine and ran on, narrowly missing a bullet that zinged past him. Belatedly, it occurred to him it could be his own people firing at the Viets. Or it could be the Viets, he couldn’t know until he got there.

  Another fifty meters, and he’d identified the shooters. His people. They must’ve been circling from the north when they collided with a bunch of enemy soldiers running away, and a firefight had broken out. The idea of getting killed by friendly fire didn’t appeal. The idea of getting killed by any fire didn’t appeal, but it would make some sense it was the enemy. Provided he got more of them before he went down.

  He dropped to his knees and began to crawl. They were close, and within minutes he spotted the enemy muzzle flashes, enabling him to count them and pinpoint their positions. He counted eleven rifles in all, too many, but he couldn’t leave them alive. He dropped flat and snaked toward the nearest man. Conscious of the bullets fired by his squad, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. If he tried to warn them, the Viets would know he was there. One man against eleven, his only chance was to take them by surprise. He took the first man by surprise.

  It was almost comical. He was inches behind the soldier, who was in the process of switching magazines on his rifle. Heller tapped him on the leg, and as he spun around, he lunged forward and rammed the muzzle of his rifle into the guy’s throat. His aim was perfect, and the heavy steel barrel smashed into the soft tissue beneath his chin. The guy gasped, choked, dropped his rifle and attempted to assuage the pain in his ruined throat, trying desperately to suck in breath through his almost flattened windpipe.

  The rest was easy. The fallen rifle with the bayonet fixed to the barrel was perfect for what he had in mind. The Viet was too preoccupied with trying to stay alive and missed the steel bayonet aimed at his neck. Heller pushed in hard, twisted to make sure, withdrew the blade, and eased back to avoid the spurt of blood. The body writhed and thrashed for several seconds. The guy was done for, the body still twitching when he slid past. One down, ten to go.

  He moved on to the next. Like the rest, he was concentrating on the enemy that lay in front of him. Forgetting the necessity for a soldier to guard his back. He took him in almost the same way as the first, except this time, he had the bayonet-tipped AK-47. No need for the preliminary softening up with the rifle barrel. Tapped him on the leg, and he turned to receive a jab from a sharpened Commie bayonet in the neck. A twist to make sure, withdraw the blade and pulled back to avoid the spurt of blood. Two down, nine to go.

  He moved on to the next. Repeated the maneuver, and that was when everything started to go wrong. Badly wrong. Tapped him on the leg, but instead of turning his head, the soldier rolled to one side and leaped to his feet. The guy must’ve thought a poisonous reptile had touched him or one of the other malodorous creatures that inhabited Vietnam. Now he was out of reach of the bayonet. Heller didn’t have a choice, he’d been wrong-footed, and he squeezed the trigger. Fired a single bullet into the soldier’s belly, and the 7.62mm slug tore open a huge wound, throwing him onto his back.

  He scrambled after him, aimed the bayonet into his throat, and missed. The guy was writhing in terrible agony, jerking around like a firecracker on steroids. He could’ve put another bullet into him, but so far, the shot appeared to have gone unnoticed amid the incoming and outgoing fire. He grabbed the hilt of the bayonet, freed it from the rifle, and jumped on the man he’d shot. There was no other way. He couldn’t risk another shot, and he had to hold onto the soldier to get any accuracy with the blade.

  He held him down, aware the guy’s blood was soaking his borrowed flight suit. Pushed the tip of the bayonet into his throat, a twist, and he was done. Three down, eight to go. He snaked forward. And stopped. He was screwed. The shot he’d fired hadn’t gone unnoticed, and an enemy soldier had spotted him. Pointed his rifle at his chest. He knew now he shouldn’t have taken the chance, should’ve found another way, but now the risk had rebounded on him, and he was seconds from death.

  It all happened in slow motion. The area they were in was open to the sky, a mass of scrub, grass, and bushes. Clouds were drifting slowly across the sky, cleared the moon, and a shaft of dim, ghostly light lit up the scene. Enough for him to see the face of his executioner. The man who was about to kill him. Every detail was in sharp focus. The pith helmet with a chunk torn from the rim, probably by a bullet or a grenade fragment. The beige shirt with the red insignia of the People’s Army. Beige pants tucked into stained, canvas boots. The rifle was old and battered, but the AK-47 had a formidable reputation for surviving severe ill-treatment yet fired and fired again. He had little doubt this rifle would be no exception.

  He stared at the face. More like the teeth. The guy’s lips had parted in a broad smile that exposed his teeth. At least, those that remained. Blackened, rotten stumps, and it may’ve been stupid, but it crossed his mind that of all the bad things that could’ve happened to him, to be killed by an orthodontist’s nightmare was the worst. He tensed, ready to throw himself to one side in a last desperate effort to avoid the bullet about to kill him.

  For some reason he couldn’t work out, he didn’t move. Stayed still as a statue. Maybe some internal voice had told him his number was up. He’d evaded death too many times. Like a cat with nine lives, this was number ten. The end. And yet… nothing happened.

  The firing continued unabated, yet the Viet didn’t pull the trigger. The smile remained fixed on the guy’s face, and once again, he felt disgust at his last vision being the site of those rancid molars. Still, nothing happened. Until it did.

  He pitched forward, like a stone column being pushed over, and the blackened, rotting smile disappeared. Moonlight showed the gaping wound in his back still pumping blood. He’d taken an incoming round, although whether by accident or design was impossible to work out. Until he heard a shout.

  “Sarge! Hit the deck!”

  Ripley’s voice. So that bullet was no accident. He doubted the enemy knew he was behind them. All they would’ve heard was a shout, and it could’ve been aimed at anybody. He was still in the game. Four down, seven to go. He snaked forward toward the next man and killed him. This time, no preliminaries. He was lying prone, and he just flopped on top of him, grabbed his chin to stretch and expose his neck, and wiped the blade across the flesh.

  A brief gurgle, a gasp of escaping air, and he was still. Five down, six to go. He was starting to think he could make it when a grenade exploded nearby. They’d spotted him and weren’t taking any chances with their lousy shooting. If he hadn’t been lying flat on the soft, damp ground, he would’ve been torn to pieces in a hail of hot, steel fragments, but he had to do something fast before they lobbed another grenade. He was lucky. A series of muzzle flashes lit up the night with a split second of bright light. Enough for him to see a soldier pull the pin on a grenade and move his arm back ready to throw.

  He pushed the selector on the rifle to full auto, squeezed the trigger, and watched the bullets tearing into the target. The firing pin clicked on empty, and he discovered he didn’t have another magazine. He didn’t need one. The grenade detonated with a hail of metal fragments, and instead of gunfire, the night became a cacophony of howls and screams. The remaining soldiers were close to the explosion, and not one escaped. Some dead, some wounded, most stunned or wounded, but the fight had gone out of them. Like the blood spilling onto the ground.

  He rushed to retrieve the rifle he’d left behind when he grabbed the AK with the bayonet fitted. The enemy was down, but he had to be sure they were out. He tossed down the empty rifle and picked his XM-177 back off the ground. He tried to remember how many bullets he had left in the magazine, and he couldn’t work out if it was nine or ten. It would have to do, and he returned to the dead and wounded soldiers. Ripley had got there already and was checking the bodies to make certain they were all dead. If they weren’t, he finished them with a single bullet in the head.

  He glanced at Heller as he approached. “Sarge, you okay?”