“We can’t leave. We must find out what’s happened.”

  “The hell with finding out anything!” Lynch snarled, “We need to get out of here.”

  Dao was impassive. “Lieutenant, I will see what happened to them. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Before they could argue, he jogged away. He heard them calling him back, making enough noise to bring half the North Vietnamese Army down on their heads. Nothing he could do about it. He was losing patience with the two Americans. Whatever they had going between them, he wasn’t interested in their bullshit about giving up. What he was interested in was finding his sister and finding those MIAs. There were plenty of ARVN Rangers who weren’t committed to defeating the Communists and plenty of American soldiers who’d made it clear they had no stomach for the fight. There were also men like him. Men prepared to give their all in the fight against the Communists. Men who weren’t prepared to give up.

  He kept heading toward where he’d heard the loudhailer.

  * * *

  They’d set up a machine gun on the far side of the bridge aimed at anybody who tried to cross. If they’d run, they’d have blasted them with automatic fire. The only other way out was to dive into the river and try to swim back to the shore, but a slow-moving swimmer would be a sitting duck. He dropped his rifle and put down his Colt. The others did the same. They walked off the bridge into a ring of uniformed NVA, and the beating started. If there was one thing Heller would give the NVA credit for, and he wouldn’t give them credit for much, it was their ability to give a man a tough working over. There must’ve been twenty of them, maybe more, and at a word of command from the mean-faced young officer holding the loudhailer, they closed in, and it started. They used fists, boots, rifle butts, and one man even wielded an American-style baseball bat he used as a club.

  They intended to inflict punishment. Not for any reason. They hated the round-eyes, made no secret of it, and so the beating went on. They were all on the ground, all bleeding from a score of cuts and covered in bruises. Heller felt himself start to lose consciousness when the baseball bat whacked him on his helmet. The man wielding it put it aside and produced a wicked-looking knife. For one bad moment he thought he was going to butcher him, but he used it to slice through the strap of his helmet, pulled it off, and punched him hard on his exposed head.

  He was still suffering from the blow he’d taken earlier, and he went straight out. When he recovered consciousness, the Viets were tying their limbs with lengths of vine. When they were firmly trussed, the officer shouted at them to get to their feet. They were too slow, and he spat an order to his men, who moved in closer, rifle butts raised. From the corner of his eye, Heller saw the baseball bat swing down once more toward his head. This time, the guy was holding it with two hands. He intended to make sure it hurt.

  Ripley intercepted the blow. Threw himself forward so the bat landed across his shoulders. The officer shouted and the beating stopped. It wasn’t the end of the pain. They forced them to move, pushing them forward. With their ankles tied just a few inches apart, all they could do was shuffle. Every time they tripped and fell, another blow landed on them. When they slowed, unable to keep up the pace, the blows came again.

  The journey was a painful torture. They finally reached a large village, and every man sighed with relief. A chance to stop and recover. It wasn’t over. They roughly bunched them in the center of the village square and pushed them toward an opening in the beaten earth. A pit, two meters deep and half filled with water. They kept pushing, forcing them to tumble into the pit Their arms and legs pinioned, there was little they could do to resist or to relieve the agony of their aching muscles. The rancid water stank, and they could forget any thoughts of climbing out. The Viets had placed a bamboo grating over the pit.

  They’d kept Vien apart, so she remained on the surface. They wouldn’t know who she was, not dressed in simple, peasant clothes, but she was an attractive young woman. He had little doubt they had designs on her. They’d be the kind of designs she wouldn’t welcome.

  “What’re we gonna do, Sarge? I can’t take much more of this.”

  He glanced at Collins, who looked scared. “Do? We get out of here. Nothing else to do.”

  “How?”

  “No idea, but I’m working on it.”

  He was trying not to give in to what looked like a hopeless situation. Once a man lost hope, he’d lost everything. Lie down and die. No way. Although he admitted it didn’t look like there was any way out. He looked at the sides of the pit, and they were just smooth, slippery mud. Maybe a man could dig footholds into the soft earth if his hands were free, but they weren’t free. They were fastened behind their backs. A no-go. He looked up at the bamboo grille. A hostile Vietnamese face stared back at him. Even if they did try anything, that bastard would spot it right away.

  It looks hopeless. Fuck it, nothing’s hopeless.

  He wiped that idea from his head.

  Don’t give in to these bastards, Heller. I’m the NCO, and that means I have a duty to get these men out of here.

  He tested the vine wrapped around his wrists, but they’d tied it so tight he was already losing circulation in his arms. They shared the same plight, and the longer they stayed there, the tougher it would be to get out. He noticed Ripley was doing the same as him, his arms moved as he maneuvered his wrists behind his back. Trying to get some slack, and he did a strange thing. Submerged his wrists in the water and continued working to loosen them underwater.

  Heller caught on right away. Of course, if the Viets had used American communication wire, like they did for most things in the South, from tying prisoners to fastening bundles of possessions for transportation, the wire would’ve been impervious to water. They hadn’t used wire, because this was the North. No American troops meant no American communication wire, so they’d used what came to hand. Vines. Organic material that softened and stretched when coming into contact with water.

  He pushed his wrists into the stinking water and lowered his body at the same time, kneeling on the soft mud at the bottom of the pit so as not to arouse the suspicions of the guy on the surface. He told them what he was doing, and they did the same, keeping their wrists submerged. Working to loosen the vines as water soaked into them. Ripley got his arms free first but kept them hidden beneath the surface. When he was sure the guy was looking away, he bent down to pull at the vines holding his ankles and quickly freed himself.

  One by one, they regained the use of their arms and legs. All they needed now was to get out of the pit. Collins shot him a glance, and although he didn’t say it, he was waiting for an answer to the obvious question. ‘How?’

  There was only one way out, and that was through the grille that barred the top of the pit. He looked at Ripley. “I need your help to get out of here, but it’s gonna hurt.”

  “Vietnam hurts, Sarge. What’s a bit more pain?”

  He told them what was needed, and Ripley didn’t hesitate. While Heller scooped mud from the side of the pit, he wrapped a length of abandoned vine around his wrists and went into a pantomime of attempting to climb out of the pit. Scrabbling up the muddy wall and continuing to fall back. He raved and screamed, spittle spewing from his mouth. The act was so good he almost convinced Heller it wasn’t an act. He kept his performance going, resorting to leaping up and down so his head almost touched the grille.

  The guard stared down at him, not sure what to make of the crazy round-eye. He decided the American had gone loco and used the butt of his rifle to hammer down on his head. His gaze was glued to the lunatic trying to escape, and he didn’t notice the almost invisible, mud-covered figure stealthily climbing up the opposite side. It was tough going. Slow going. Heller couldn’t afford to make any sudden movement to attract attention. Forcing his boot into the mud to give himself a foothold, reaching up and pushing his fingers into the soft earth, pulling himself up a few inches more.

  He hadn’t recovered from the painful agonies of the long, hobbled march and the beating. Hadn’t recovered from the earlier blow to the head, but that was too bad. There was no other way, and if he failed, there’d be a lot worse to come. He kept going, reached the top, and held onto a loose length of vine they’d used to fasten the bamboo grille. Ripley’s ‘mad’ act had reached a crescendo, and the Viet was openly laughing as he hammered him back with the butt of his rifle. He called to another soldier who appeared next to him, and both men chuckled as they watched the unexpected entertainment.

  Both men produced money from their pockets, argued with each other in guttural tones, and finally nodded in agreement. The motherfuckers were placing a bet on whether Ripley would make it, and maybe they were wagering on whether the repeated blows would crack his skull. Like the Romans had done in the coliseum, betting on gladiatorial fights or Christians thrown to the lions. Gambling on who would live and who would die.

  Ripley used his head to batter at the grille as if trying to open it. The two soldiers roared with laughter until the structure started to come loose. They spoke to each other and decided to put an end to it. They both unslung their rifles and aimed at Ripley. For one, heart-stopping moment, Heller thought they were going to shoot him, but they didn’t shoot. The reason soon became apparent. The young officer arrived, saw what was happening, barked a series of orders, and strode away. One soldier left, and the other stepped back and shouldered his rifle. He stepped back, a disgruntled look on his face. The entertainment had ended, the show was over.

  They hadn’t re-fastened the vine holding the bamboo grille in place. It was the only chance he’d get, and he took it. Grabbed the guy’s ankle and pulled. Off balance, he couldn’t stop himself from tumbling into the pit, where waiting hands grabbed his AK-47 before pushing his head under the water until he stopped moving.

  One by one, they scrambled out, taking care to bring the AK. They were armed, the square was deserted, and it looked like they had a chance to get away. Until a soldier walked through the doorway of a hut, spotted them, and shouted a warning. More soldiers charged out from the huts. He counted twenty rifles leveled at them. They tensed. Waiting for the shooting to start.

  Ripley, who carried the AK-47, glanced at Heller. “What now?”

  There was only one answer to that question. If they went back into that pit, the likelihood was they’d die, and their deaths would be slow and painful.

  “When I give the word, shoot the motherfuckers.”

  “Uh-huh. Unless it escaped your notice, we’re kinda outgunned and outnumbered.”

  “We don’t have a choice. You all ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait until I give the word, and fire on full auto.”

  There was an outside chance, the tiniest of chances, maybe less than ten thousand to one, that something could distract them. Maybe a bombing raid on the village, although not likely. Maybe the ghost of Ho Chi Minh would appear, so they could goggle in wonder at the ‘Hero of the Liberation.’ Or the ‘Butcher of Hanoi,’ as many Southerners remembered him before his death the previous year. Not gonna happen. He drew in a breath, it had to be now.

  “Any moment.”

  The square was silent as they regarded each other from either side. On one, the wet, bedraggled Americans armed with just one AK. On the other side, he counted around twenty soldiers. That made twenty AKs. In the next few seconds, they’d be dead, although at least they’d given it their all, and maybe taken a few Communists with them.

  He saw the young officer tense. Probably he’d been working out how to persuade the prisoners to climb back into the pit and concluded that men weren’t likely to go willingly to their deaths. Not gonna happen. His mouth opened, about to give the order. Heller got there first.

  “Fire.”

  The AK they’d acquired sported a banana-shaped magazine with a capacity of thirty rounds. The village wasn’t a combat zone, so there was little reason for them to have fired off any shots. Ripley had a total of thirty rounds. Theoretically, one round for each Viet and ten to spare. Except it wouldn’t happen like that. Most bullets fired from an assault rifle on full auto would miss. They’d be more than lucky if they killed or wounded a half-dozen. Plenty left over to return the compliment.

  They had no choice. Ripley squeezed the trigger, and Heller tensed, waiting for the Viets to return fire. Waiting to be torn to pieces in a hail of 7.62mm bullets. No man can anticipate the place where he will die. For him and the rest of the squad, they knew this was their place. The sudden storm of gunfire took the enemy by surprise, so maybe they’d thought they wouldn’t do it. Thought maybe men would go to their deaths without putting up a fight. Maybe thought they’d throw down the gun they’d acquired and climb back down into the pit. The bullets tearing into them came as a rude surprise, and the young officer hastily shouted an order. Several men snapped off a few shots and died. Caught in a withering hail of bullets that tore into them from the side of a nearby hut.

  Stunned, they stopped shooting and searched for the new enemy. Several soldiers started to edge toward where the shots had come from. Heller seized the chance. They were close to the soldiers, and it was a simple choice. Life or death. He chose life.

  “Get ‘em!”

  They ran toward the soldiers. Into a chaotic, disorganized, panicking rabble that moments before been disciplined soldiers. Men who were undecided about the two choices they faced. Fight or flight. Even the officer looked bemused. They crossed the packed-earth square in a matter of seconds and took them on, fighting hand-to-hand. They were still outnumbered, and the Viets could’ve turned things around. Except they didn’t. Once panic sets in, it tends to be infectious, and these men sure were infected.

  They hit them like an express train, picking up assault rifles dropped by men killed in the initial bursts. They went after the fleeing men and relentlessly gunned them down. The young officer was the last man standing, staring at the mass of bodies that moments before had been his soldiers. Contemplating the appalling catastrophe that’d wiped out his command. And staring in astonishment when an ARVN Ranger stepped out from behind the hut and inserted a fresh magazine into his rifle. Dao.

  He pointed the rifle at the officer. The Viet clutched a Makarov pistol, but he didn’t look like he planned to use it any time soon. More like he’d surveyed the opposition and decided squeezing the trigger would be a bad idea. Heller waved an acknowledgment to Dao. As he approached the officer, the man’s lips formed a thin smile, and he dropped his automatic.

  “I surrender. I am your prisoner.”

  Heller held the muzzle of an AK-47 he’d picked up, aimed at his belly. “Where is it?”

  He looked defiant. “Where is what?”

  “The prison camp.”

  “I know nothing of any prison camp.” His eyes didn’t match his words. They’d shown instant recognition when he mentioned a prison camp. A fraction of a second later, the eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened.

  “Last chance, pal. Where is it?”

  His refusal to talk didn’t worry him. The place couldn’t be far away, and there were a couple of North Vietnamese wounded who’d be more than glad to tell him what he wanted. He shouldn’t have done what happened next. The guy had said he’d surrendered. Therefore, he was a prisoner. In theory. But not in reality. He’d overseen the brutal treatment of his American captives, and there was little doubt he planned to kill them all, slowly and painfully, once he and his men had enjoyed their fun.

  Heller held the rifle casually at the hip, so it didn’t look like he intended to get off a shot. The Viet stared at him, defiant, safe in the knowledge he was untouchable. He wasn’t. Heller squeezed the trigger, and the bullet ripped into the officer’s knee. He emitted a shrill scream and fell to the ground, blood pouring from his shattered knee. He shouted like an angry protest in Vietnamese.

  Too bad, I gave you a warning. Which was more than you gave us.

  “The next one goes through the other knee. Where is it?”

  He knew he was going to die, and he made a final gesture. Spat out a torrent of abuse in Vietnamese. Probably cursing his ancestors and his descendants for all time. Too bad Heller didn’t believe in curses. He fired again, and this time the bullet plowed into his forehead, and he slumped backward. Heller glanced around at Dao, who’d reappeared, leading his sister through the doorway of a hut. She looked like they’d given her a tough time. Her clothes were torn and disheveled, her eyes filled with fear and disbelief. No need to ask.

  He looked at Dao and grinned. “What took you so long?”

  “I didn’t think you needed my help. You Recon men are supposed to be tough.”

  “We were having an off day,” he grunted, “Dao, I don’t know what to say, that was something.”

  “American soldiers have saved the lives of my men many times in the past, so I was pleased to return the compliment.”

  “You did that in spades. Let’s see what the survivors have to say about the location of the prison camp.”

  He was too late. Unnoticed, Vien had got hold of a sharp knife, knelt next to each wounded man, and sliced the blade across their throats. Whatever they had to say, it’d gone with them to the grave. Dao remonstrated with his sister, but she returned a look of such cold fury he shut up. It wasn’t hard to work out why she’d done what she’d done. For the Communists, the rape and abuse of women was a weapon of war. She’d fought back.

  Yet they hadn’t killed them all. When they went from hut to hut to make sure they’d got them all, Heller found a survivor, a man who’d hidden behind a bundle of bedding. He wore the uniform of the People’s Army, with rank and unit tabs identifying him as a commissar. He dragged him out and tossed him on the ground. Asked him did he speak English. He glared back at him. Sullen, defiant, eyes filled with hatred.

  “Dao, ask him about the camp.”

  He spat out the question in Vietnamese, but it was clear the guy wasn’t going to give them anything. They had to find that camp, fast, while they still could. They’d left a trail of bloodshed a blind man could follow. If they didn’t find it soon, the Communists would find them and annihilate them. Torturing a man to get him to tell them what they needed wasn’t what he’d signed up for, although it wasn’t that easy. If the Communists went ahead with swapping those prisoners for weapons and supplies, they’d ship them out to Russia by sea. Convey them to the Serbsky Institute in Moscow, fill them full of psychotic drugs, and destroy their brains to find out what they knew.