We were careful, but not careful enough. The enemy must have placed ambushes all over the jungle, hoping we’d blunder into one, and one day we did. Those Cong must have stayed motionless for two days, letting the wildlife become acclimatized to the intrusion; we had no hint of their presence until their guns fired.

  Actually, we outnumbered them, but it was no match. As the Cambodians went down I charged the baffle and landed with both boots on someone’s face. No room here for a rifle; I laid about me with my knife, slashing at anything that moved.

  Then something struck my head, and I was out.

  I woke in a cage of bamboo. My head ached, and I had a welt where I had been bit, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The cage was small, so that I couldn’t stand or move effectively. I had to squat, my knees and buttocks jammed up against the bars, while the biting flies multiplied freely. By the time I swatted one, several others were sucking my blood elsewhere, and I had to go after them too. It did not help that my captors would not release me for calls of nature; I had to relieve myself in the cage, and bask in the growing odors of my own refuse while the flies bred in it.

  They did take me out for questioning. The guards had socks filled with sand. One spoke English. “Why are you here?” he demanded. “Where are your associates? Sign a confession!”

  Of course I did not answer. They had not expected me to. This was just a formality before the beating. They pounded me methodically with the socks. I took it; there was nothing else to do. Their object was to soften me, not to kill me. They wanted to make me feel miserable, more amenable to their will. And of course they hated everything I stood for. This was routine. In their position, I probably would have had the same motives and hates.

  Comprehension did not make it much easier to bear. Eventual death, probably by torture, was my likely lot, if I did not manage to escape. I was dumped back into my cage to meditate upon my pains.

  A guard approached, carrying my lighter and cigarette package. He was smoking with evident relish. “I learned to smoke when I fought the French,” he told me. “Too bad these aren’t marijuana. You want one?”

  “I don’t smoke,” I said, realizing that the truth would be the last thing he believed. “I only use them for burning off leeches.”

  He took a languorous puff, evidently trying to tease me. I licked my lips as though secretly eager for a cigarette. Let him think he was torturing me this way; it might postpone the real torture.

  “I am the only one here who speaks your language,” he confided. “So I get the easy duty: to question you. I get to smoke your cigarettes. Tell me the truth, and I will give half the pack back to you.”

  “I won’t talk even for the whole pack!” I said.

  “Too bad for you, good for me,” he said, lighting another. “The longer this takes, the more smokes I get for myself. I am in no hurry! But we must make this look good, for the others are jealously watching. They want so much to cut you up!”

  Surely the truth. But dead men seldom give valuable military information. So their natural appetites had to be restrained, for the time being.

  He poked the new cigarette toward me, intending to burn me with it, another standard torture. Suddenly I saw that it was one of the special ones; I had tried to make them indistinguishable from the rest, but this was impossible, and of course I did need to know the difference myself.

  I jerked away, genuinely horrified.

  “Ah, you are brave with the socks, not so brave with the butts,” he said with satisfaction, taking another puff so that the end glowed brightly. “Your weak point, your Achilles’ heel, eh?”

  He prodded my leg with the glow. I tried to get away, knowing my leg would be blown off if the thing exploded at that instant, but the cage was too confining. He scored on my thigh, and the pain was sharp. I yelled, but that, too, was for a purpose. He thought it was the pain alone that set me off.

  He puffed again, enjoying this. “Yes, you Americans are all such cowards. A little burn—I would not fear it! But you, with your decadent soft life—shall I burn your white nose first, or your white pizzle?” He pushed it toward me again.

  “Wait!” I cried. “I’ll talk!” Actually I was doing some feverish calculating. I had set those traps to explode in about a minute from ignition, but it is hard to be accurate in a home-made job, and there were many variables. That cigarette could help me or kill me. It all depended where it was when the trap sprung.

  If he were just poking it through the bars of the cage at the time, not too close to my flesh—escape! I would suffer burns and other damage, but he would lose his hand—and the cage would be blasted open. With luck, I could make it to the jungle before the others collected their wits. It could hardly be worse than another beating. And if the explosion were too close, and I was killed— at least it would be quick and clean.

  “So talk,” he said, holding the ember half-way between us.

  “Well,” I began, acting as if I were going to balk after all. He moved the cigarette toward me and I speeded up. “I’m on a mission for the Green Berets. Planting sensors to mark your trails, for the bombers to home in on.” I was telling the truth, gambling that it would make no difference after the blast. They would assume I had been lying merely to buy the precious time, if they even guessed about the cigarettes. Meanwhile, my talking encouraged him to hold the cigarette right where I wanted it: close enough to serve as a threat without actually burning me. Near to the bars of the cage.

  But it didn’t last. He listened attentively, bringing it up to his lips for another draw. Half a minute had passed, and the cigarette was too far away.

  “Aw, give me one puff,” I said, interrupting myself. “You promised me half the pack.”

  He started to bring it toward me as I wanted. I didn’t expect him to give it to me, but to tease me with it—but that would place it exactly where I wanted it.

  “After I am satisfied,” he said. He held it toward me a moment, then slowly returned it to his mouth for another lingering puff.

  The blast tore his head apart and momentarily blinded and deafened me. When my senses cleared, the whole camp was standing around us, amazed. But I remained confined, and he was beyond help.

  They were confused and angry, and so was I, for rather different reasons. To have escape so near . . .

  But there was one small benefit. Evidently he had spoken the truth about being the only English-speaking one, and they did not realize that I knew some of their language. They could not figure out how I could have smuggled a bomb into my cage, since I was obviously helpless. So they let me be; there was no one left to interrogate me.

  I was taken to several villages. That was the only exercise I got: walking with my hands bound behind me, yoked to the cage, hauling it along behind me. I knew better than to stall or try to run; there was no escaping such numbers when they were on guard. If I tried, they would put me back in the cage and haul it themselves, and the battering would leave me in much worse condition than I was.

  They fed me the same rations they gave themselves: a bowl of rice with a stinking fish sauce. I could hardly choke down the putrid mess, but there was nothing else. As it was, there was not enough. They were giving me the same amount each of them took. But they were small men, weighing about a hundred pounds; I weighed 180. It took more to sustain me. So I went hungry, in time might have starved, on the same rations that kept them healthy.

  They were brutal even when they didn’t intend to be, in another of those ironies of war. There were, however, plenty of times when they did intend to be brutal. At each new village my cage would be set up in a public place, and the natives would pelt me with anything handy. Overripe fruit, clods of earth, roots, dung. Nothing really dangerous, because they were saving me for interrogation by the experts. I knew I would have to escape, or die trying, before that happened. There would be torture, and probably a combination of drugs and brainwashing that might or might not leave me sane, but would get the information they required. The pelting was child’s play, when viewed in proper perspective.

  Literally, for it was the children who participated with greatest glee. I suppose flinging dung comes naturally to youngsters the world over. Good, clean fun.

  For two weeks I traveled, most of the time cooped in that cage, my legs numb from the position, my scratches smarting from grime and dirt and sweat. No one had pity on me. I knew that anyone who showed me the slightest open favor would be killed or tortured. They did not have to be preserved for interrogation.

  Yet there were those who seemed to show that they lacked the force of hate that was expected of them. They threw dung with the others, but arranged to miss me; they shouted insults that lacked conviction. None of them would help me, of course, but if I should escape, their pursuit would not be as vigorous as it could be. These people were good at that sort of thing; they really did not like trouble.

  One of these was a girl. She was young, perhaps sixteen, and petite, with long black hair. She stood about four feet ten inches, and might have weighed eighty pounds. Her figure was childlike, or more correctly doll-like, for it was all there and extremely feminine, accentuated by her long black pajama-like uniform. On her feet were crude sandals fashioned of tire rubber.

  She would have been a beauty, were it not for her crooked nose. It must have been broken in childhood and never set correctly. Too bad.

  She traveled with the Cong, and there was no mistaking her profession, but none of this showed in her aspect. She was just a girl trying to get along. Maybe her home had been bombed, her family killed, so that she had no support and no one to turn to. So she was using the one real asset remaining to her: her enticement of form. When that faded, she would be finished. But for that nose, she could have had a far better life.

  She came to me at night, hesitantly, afraid of this huge white stranger. She carried a bucket of water. I thought she was going to offer me a drink, but then one of the guards saw her and approached. She swung the bucket with all her force, and the water drenched me.

  The guard laughed, and the girl laughed too, but in her eyes there was sorrow. The guard took her away, into a nearby hut, and she seemed to go with him willingly enough, but she sent one glance back at me that reversed the meaning entirely.

  Or did it? I could not ignore the possibility that they were trying a subtle or not so subtle gambit to get early information from me. Let the little whore play up to the prisoner a bit, discovering how much he really knew of their language. If she got me talking, I might give her news to aid my supposed escape—news that would close that escape forever.

  No, I could not afford to trust her, unfortunately.

  She came again the following night, bearing her bucket. This time no guard interrupted her. She must have given him a warning, last night. I took the drink she offered, gratefully, and used the remainder of the water to wash myself off somewhat. She smiled at me, and the shadows concealed her nose and accentuated her white teeth, so that it was an extremely nice smile. I was tempted to throw away caution; I wanted to believe in her. I knew that two weeks in the cage, suffering and slowly wasting away from the inadequate diet, had distorted my judgment. Still, she was a pretty girl . . .

  She put her face to mine, just beyond the bars. Her hands came up to caress my cheeks. “Do you understand me?” she asked. “I am here to help you escape.”

  She had rushed it, making the ploy too obvious. Now I knew she was no friend of mine. I shook my head as if in incomprehension. She continued to caress me. Her touch warmed me despite my distrust; it was so gentle, so feminine. Her face came closer, until I could kiss her, and I did. Meanwhile I put my hands through the bars, placing them about her slender throat, lightly, then tightly.

  I strangled her. I intended only to knock her out so that I could get her knife; I was sure she had one somewhere. They all do. Then I could cut my way out of the cage. But she struggled like a fighting cat, pulling away strongly, trying to get her teeth into my hands. I tightened up instantly, struggling to hold her still, determined to prevent any outcry while I searched her body for the knife. I did not realize how strong I was in my desperation, or how frail she was.

  I heard a crack, and she hung in my two hands, limp. Her black pajamas became soiled; her bladder control had vanished. I had broken her neck.

  She was not quite dead. She jerked about as I held her, her body twitching in involuntary spasms the way a beheaded snake does. I had no choice; I held her up one handed while with the other hand I searched for the knife.

  My fingers wormed into her loose top, exploring her warm breasts. They were not large but well formed, and no knife was there. I continued down, feeling her smooth belly and firm thighs, intensely regretting my destruction of this beauty. Finally I found the knife strapped to her waist, concealed by the slack in the uniform. I ripped it off, then let her drop. She was all the way dead now.

  I cut the cords and the bamboo rods separated. I was free. But at what price, what price! True, she might have intended to betray me, but I could have stopped that without killing her.

  Now what? I hesitated to leave her there. Better to have my escape a mystery, so that their pursuit would be uncertain. If they thought an agent had come to free me, or better yet, a traitor— what havoc with their intelligence system. And I just didn’t like to implicate her, rightly or wrongly. If any of her family lived, they would pay the price of her supposed treachery.

  Perhaps it was that I was thoroughly ashamed of what I had done. Murdering an innocent girl. How innocent, I didn’t know.

  I picked her up, feeling the wetness in her clothing, and hauled her into the jungle. I knew I didn’t have time to bury her, but if I could hide her—and then I heard the cry of alarm. My escape had already been discovered.

  Actually they would have been smarter to organize their pursuit silently, so that I might have been lulled into carelessness. This way I knew exactly where they were. I threw the body into a tangle of brush and took off. My chances were fairly good; it was almost impossible to track a man in the jungle, if he had any ability in covering his traces. And I did.

  But I took the further precaution of ambushing the two guards who were hottest on my trail. One had a Russian automatic rifle with bayonet attached, an AK-2; this was much lighter than the American equivalent, and superior for use in the jungle. It did not jam as readily as the American M-41. I wanted that weapon.

  The other man had a machete. I jumped out behind them as they passed and plunged my knife unceremoniously into the side of the nearest, the machete man. The other whirled, swinging his rifle about to cover me. My mistake; I should have gone for the rifleman first.

  I jumped at him, deflecting the barrel as the weapon fired: The bullet hit my side, but what annoyed me at the moment was the noise it made. Now everyone would have a clear notion where the action was.

  I grabbed the bayonet with my bare hand and pulled it toward me. I hit the man with a karate chop to the head. He grunted and fell, and I finished him off with a couple of hard kicks to his throat and face.

  I kept the rifle, of course, and also the machete. Now I was doubly armed, and my pursuers knew that, for the hue and cry had died out. While they hesitated I made good my escape. Ten minutes was as good as a week, for they would never find me now.

  Certain of my reprieve, I suddenly felt my personal state. I was weak from hunger and the cage, and my side was bloody, and my right hand was a mess where I had gripped the bayonet. I did not look at it; I kept my fist tightly clenched. But blood was leaking out and it burned terribly.

  The same wilderness that hampered the pursuit would make my private survival difficult, especially in my condition. I was not familiar with this region and had no supplies. I staggered on, uncertain of my course, thinking dizzily of the girl I had killed. That sweet little form . . .

  My footing gave way. I windmilled for balance, realizing that I had blundered into a river. Then my face struck the water. I gasped for breath instinctively, and took in a lungful of liquid. Choking weakly, I faded out.

  CHAPTER 3

  KILL-13

  I must have faded in and out several times. I knew that hours, perhaps days, had passed, and I had jumbled memories of stretchers, motion, sirens, doctors, jungle—no, some of that was years ago.

  It is not my way to collapse after one blow. I might have been out at first, but hardly for this length of time. I knew the doctors had drugged me, putting me back under again and again. That bothered me; I don’t like drugs, particularly when they are used on me. I seemed to be whole; my arms and legs were present and responsive, and my senses were all right. Why this hospital treatment?

  As if on cue, a doctor entered my room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Striker!” he said jovially. Well, on his pay I’d be jovial too.

  “Afternoon? First I knew of it.”

  “Two o’clock.” He seemed to have a slight British accent.

  “I remember there was a fight,” I said.

  “Some fight! You physical training roughnecks certainly make a job of it, you know.”

  Roughnecks. He classed us all the same, demons and martial artists. Typical ignorance; no point arguing. “I got kicked, that was all,” I said. “No cause to run me broke in a place like this. What about the others?”

  “Kicked!” He shook his head, making a soundless whistle. “Evidently you don’t realize—”

  “I realize.” The drug they had dosed me with hadn’t worn off entirely. I felt numb in the crotch area, and was in better spirits than I suspected I ought to be. “That black woman was an expert at her trade. She would have gotten me, if I hadn’t—”

  “Would have? I did the surgery on your testicles, Striker! You’ll be lucky if you’re not sterile. I may have saved one.”