Men in Green Faces (22 page)

“The patrol,” Gene continued, “will be able to familiarize themselves with the sights, sounds, and smells of the Delta. I’ll be your APL, but you should bring in men from your squad to do all the legwork. I’ll be there if needed.”

“Sounds good,” said John. “I’ll get things moving.”

Gene didn’t doubt it. As he expected, the new squad was professional in preparing for the Warning Order and the Patrol Leader’s Order. It seemed like no time before they were getting off the boat at their insertion point.

As substitute for Tommy, Gene took his position in the center of the squad’s file formation. There was still plenty of light as they moved out. The men would be able to see everything.

The silent squad patrolled slowly, observing everything in their new environment. After a time, dusk began to fall. The shadows grew long, and what sunlight filtered down through the levels of treetops to the floor of the jungle would be gone, Gene knew, within thirty minutes.

Oh, shit! Frozen in place, his hand shot up to halt the patrol.

Behind him, the men stopped, but in front, they kept moving. He snapped his fingers to get their attention and got them to halt. The moment John looked back, Gene signaled for him to come to his location. When he did, Gene pointed out the booby trap.

An M-26 fragment grenade was wedged between three branches of a tree, about five or six feet from the ground. Silently he showed John the trip wire running down the back side of the trunk and across the small area. The wire, suspended about six inches off the ground, fortunately was running parallel to the patrol’s movement. If they had crossed over at that point, toward the river, one of the squad would have snagged the wire and pulled the pin, exploding the grenade at head level.

John looked at Gene—with the kind of look that said, My God, but we’re lucky—before beginning the process of calling each man up to see the booby trap, as the rest set security and waited their turn.

“Look carefully,” Gene whispered to each of them. “Where there’s one, we’ll probably find more.”

When Hotel’s point man came up to look at the device, Gene handed him a three-foot pliable twig. “Hold it in front of you, while you lead us to the objective site, to detect trip wires. When the twig touches a wire, you’ll feel the resistance. The twig will bend without setting off the booby trap.”

The point man took the twig. Gene shook his head and stopped him. He took a minute more to show him how to hold the twig and his Stoner together, so that wherever his eyes and weapon tracked, the twig would still be leading. That done, they moved out and headed into their objective.

Once there, just as stated in the PLO, each man settled into position, to wait for the enemy to enter their kill zone.

They’re good, Gene thought. Quiet and wide-eyed. The adrenaline would be pumping through their veins while they waited for the click that would let them open up, with the overwhelming firepower they possessed. He knew, too, that after a few ops, the adrenaline flow would decrease, and they’d learn to relax slightly until the time came when the shit hit the fan.

But tonight they were wired. All senses on full alert, they would be flinching at the smallest noise in the darkness and trying to distinguish the differing sounds of jungle versus man. Gene had no doubt that this, their first op, would stay with them forever. He eased back into his position, closed his eyes for a brief moment, and relaxed.

He felt lousy. Several times during the patrol, he’d shoved his sweatband into his mouth to silence his cough. Sometimes he’d shoved it so far down his throat that he had gagged, and ended up both retching and coughing. Between the heat, the humidity, and his fever, he dripped sweat. Worse, nightfall had brought ten thousand mosquitoes. The noise of the humming little bloodsuckers was a constant background in the jungle.

If intel was correct, the B-40 rocket team would be moving down, in about an hour, to set up on the Son Ku Lon bank.

Slap!

Gene froze and listened hard. Everything stayed silent. One of the FNGs—fucking new guys—must have been bit by a mosquito or a fire ant and slapped his head or face. Very slowly, very carefully, not disturbing the silence, Gene crept over to the XM-203 man and leaned over his shoulder.

Staring into wide brown eyes in a young face, he whispered, “If you slap another mosquito, you could get us all killed. If you survive, and I get out as well, I will rip your head off, defecate in it, then screw it on backward. Here.” He handed the man his insect repellent and returned to his position.

Time crawled. Then Gene heard engines. From the sound of them, it had to be their own Swift boats patrolling, but they were in the wrong area. He and Hagar had cleared an AO of nine grid squares, one thousand square meters per grid, for their break-in op. All of it was off limits to all other operations while they were in there. Aircraft wouldn’t even fly over unless he and Hagar called them in.

Gene’s skin crawled. The boats were coming closer. The slightest sound from anyone in the squad, and the boat—or boats—would turn their bow-mounted, twin .50-caliber machine guns on their location and open up. Their rounds couldn’t pierce the boats’ armor plating, and with only brush for cover, there was no chance for survival.

He watched the two dark masses coming up the river, ever closer, and prayed that Hotel’s squad would maintain silence discipline, that the FNG wouldn’t kill another vampire mosquito. Let them pass…The squad couldn’t make radio contact with TOC…boat crew might hear the radio’s squelch.

Twenty meters from their location, the boats moved slowly. Only minutes until they’d pass—oh, shit! Horrified, Gene watched the boats turn ninety degrees and beach—right in their laps. At high tide, the boats were only feet away, their twin .50s looking down. Please don’t let anyone move…not one muscle.

Without sound, and very slowly, the squad had raised their weapons to return fire if the Swifts opened up on them. Gene felt fear run deep—knew the others felt the same. Now it was a waiting game. God help them if anybody moved.

Hours passed. His legs went numb. Though the 60 grew unbearably heavy, he kept it trained on the boats. In the night, around him, the rest were doing the same. He couldn’t believe their situation. One slight sound…one move…and they would be ripped apart by other U.S. Navy personnel.

The night continued, each second achingly long. The Swifts remained, bows at the bank. Gene’s fears intensified. The boats might stay until sunrise. If that happened, the squad had a good chance of being seen. Once the boat people saw any humans in the jungle, they’d open up, thinking they were the bad guys. Lucky he hadn’t had to cough during the past hours.

No sooner had it come to mind than the urge was there. Maybe fear had prevented it until that point, but once Gene thought about coughing, he had to. The back of his throat tickled, and built-up mucus choked him. With the boats’ .50-calibers staring down, he struggled to negate the need.

He couldn’t cough. The .50s would tear all of them apart. His stomach and chest muscles were rigid. Sweatband in the mouth…wouldn’t work. Even the muffled sound would be enough that they’d open up.

Slowly he took his left hand off the forward grip of the 60 and placed the total weight of the weapon in his right hand. His arms ached and muscles burned, but he had to stay as motionless as possible. Using his left hand, he pulled his sweatband off, then pushed it deep in his mouth to try to suppress the tickle in his throat. He couldn’t. It was too far down.

He had to stop the cough. He couldn’t cost the other SEALs their lives.

Slowly he pulled the sweatband out of his mouth. Holding one corner in his teeth, he wrapped the middle and index fingers of his left hand with the band. His right arm ached with the weight of the 60. He eased the two wrapped fingers back into his mouth, reaching down as far as he could, as deep as possible into his throat, and concentrated on not gagging or inducing vomiting. He twisted his fingers to scratch the tickle, and hoping the cloth had caught some of the phlegm, backed them out slowly, never taking his eyes off the boats.

By God, he thought, it had worked. His throat was eased—at least for now.

Well after 2400 hours, the Swifts’ engines kicked into life. Everlastingly grateful, Gene watched as they backed off and headed downriver to the Son Ku Lon.

Nobody moved until the boats were a distance down the river. Then they had to, to get the blood circulating in their legs and buttocks. For minutes, most couldn’t stand. When he could, John signaled for them to rally, two hundred meters to the rear.

In position once more, Hagar said he was ready to go home for the night.

Gene nodded. He had no problem with that. His hands, face, and neck were welted from mosquito bites, as were those of the rest of the squad.

John called for extraction, and when the boat came, they headed home.

“We need to find out who the boats were,” Gene told him on their way back, “and what the hell they were doing in our area of operations.”

With John beside him, Gene headed to TOC as soon as they docked, leaving the rest of the squad to go to their hootch and to bed.

TOC was a somewhat restricted area, and Gene knew it. All operations in their area of the Delta were monitored there. It housed all communications, time frames, call signs, and situation maps. He went straight to the section leader.

“Which Swift boats were on patrol and what areas were they to patrol tonight?”

“We’ll check the situation map,” the section leader said.

Gene stared at it. The area they’d cleared had been reduced by three grids. “Take a look at this, John.”

They had both checked the situation map to ensure there were no other operations scheduled in their AO. Where they’d cleared nine grids, only six were now on the board. Gene looked at the section leader.

“Who’s been in the TOC in the last six hours?”

“Well,” the man said, “Lieutenant Commander Wilson—”

“One of the Sea Wolf pilots,” Gene told John.

“—Sean, Willie, and Tong,” the section leader finished.

“That’s all?”

“Oh, yeah. Loc—the Vietnamese SEAL?”

“I know him,” Gene said. Loc had interpreted when he’d questioned Raggedy, and left angry. “What was he doing here?”

“He stopped in to say good-bye. He’d been reassigned.” The section leader looked at his watch. “Flew out just about two hours ago.”

“Was he near the map?”

“He could have been. They all could have been. It’s possible that someone leaned against the board,” he said. “Accidents happen. Mistakes happen. I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no way to know,” John said, once outside.

“Best thing,” Gene said, “is to file a report with Johnny over at NILO. Loc will bear watching, wherever he is. I don’t think the erasure was accidental. He was really pissed at me a few nights ago. Willie even warned me to watch my back.”

“I’ll talk with Johnny. Appreciate your going out with us.”

Grim, Gene watched him walk away. Telling Johnny was the thing to do, so the intel network could keep an eye on Loc, just in case he was a double agent. Coughing, and angry, he went back to his own hootch and to bed, too weary to even wash up.

D
ARK GRAY MORNING CAME
early with a hard, heavy rain. In khaki swim trunks, his body still covered with mud and dirt from the break-in op, Gene studied the south bank of the river. Dead trees, killed by defoliant, stood scattered in front of the thick, shadowy bush under the massed, lofty trees of the jungle. He coughed, bent over with the effort.

When the spell subsided, and he had his breath back, he went to the fifty-five-gallon barrel at the northwest corner of the hootch. Filled with rainwater, it overflowed now. Morning chow was coming, and he wanted to scrub up. He stripped off the swim trunks, grabbed a metal helmet, scooped it full of water, and poured it over his head.

He did it again before soaping, and then again when he rinsed off. Coughing hard, he struggled back into the swim trunks.

“Gene, how are you feeling?”

He looked around at Doc. “Shitty. Can’t you get rid of this cough?”

Doc frowned. “Have you taken your meds?”

“Sure have. Every one.” He put a hand on the hootch wall to steady himself.

“I want to see you, over by your rack.”

There’d be no argument. Doc had that look that said he wasn’t fooling. When he marched off, Gene was right behind him.

Moments later, Doc took a thermometer out of his medical bag. “Open,” he said.

When he took it out of Gene’s mouth, it read 102 degrees. “Let me see your throat.”

Gene opened his mouth. Doc aimed his small flashlight and peered inside.

“Red,” he said, “but no pus. Let me hear your lungs. Breathe deep.”

Gene’s attempt to take a breath started him coughing, hard. Tears ran down his cheeks from his watering eyes.

“You sound terrible. Get down to sick bay. You have to see the doctor.”

“Okay. Right after breakfast.”

Doc seemed to rise two inches. “No way! Get your ass down to sick bay. Now.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Gene backed up. “Okay. All right.”

Doc folded his arms across his chest and waited.

Keeping an eye on him, Gene pulled on his blue-and-gold. “How about just one cup of coffee?”

“Now!”
Doc yelled.

“Okay. Okay.” He headed out to sick bay. It was miserable weather, but the cool rain felt good.

Behind him, Doc reentered the hootch and went looking for Jim. He found him sitting on his rack, studying a map.

“Got a minute?”

Jim folded the map. “Sure, Doc. What’s up?”

“I sent Gene to sick bay. I think he has pneumonia. If I’m right, the doctor will send him out of here.”

Frowning, Jim chewed gently on the corner of his lower lip. His fingers smoothed the map, tightened the fold. “Is he at sick bay now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Doc nodded and walked away.

Jim went straight to sick bay. The doctor was finishing his exam when he walked through the door.