Men in Green Faces (29 page)

Willie, he asked silently, can you hear me? I miss you, my friend. Why didn’t you stay home on the Float? You didn’t have to go out. You gave the ultimate. For what? I’m lost, my friend. So full of hate, so angry. Wish I’d been with you that day. If I’d been there, you might have lived. I’m so sorry, my dear brother…

Sleep never came.

T
HE LACK OF REST
began to take its toll. Though he was mentally alert, his body felt heavy after four days without sleep. Gene leaned against the cleaning table outside the hootch and decided the main reason his strength wasn’t up to par was that he’d just come off the sick list. He’d gone without sleep before, during Hell Week in training. Six days.

Gene had just finished cleaning his gear. He’d only fired about a hundred rounds on the KCS op. Not even a warm-up for a power weapon, especially one so clean and smooth in operation. He’d dismantled the 60, to clean and inspect every part like he always did, and was glad he had. The operating rod had fractured. If he’d just sprayed her down with WD-40 oil, she could have quit when he needed her most.

He shuddered at the thought. He could have fired eight hundred rounds, or eight, before that rod broke in two and left him with what amounted to a twenty-six-pound club.

He turned the 60 in his big hands and looked at it. Many a person in this godforsaken place had gone into battle only to have their weapons malfunction due to worn-out parts. Most malfunctions were due to poor or no maintenance. It was stupid to risk their own lives and their buddies’ because they were too lazy to take care of their gear.

One of the reasons he’d volunteered for SEAL Team was that they had the fewest casualties of any branch of the military. For one thing, SEALs took care of their weapons.

He’d just started toward the hootch when Marc came out, ran past him to Seafloat’s edge. Gene cringed in sympathy. The Eagle was puking his guts out. He waited a moment, then went over to walk back inside with him.

“Marc, you okay? You look lousy.”

The Eagle stopped, pulled his T-shirt off, and used it to wipe his pale and sweaty face. “I think it was something I ate,” he said. “Hope this is it. I’ve got an op tonight.”

“Hey, bro…I’m ready. Why not check if I can take your place?”

Marc glanced at him, his light blue eyes red-rimmed. “No. I’ll be okay.” He stopped, spun away.

Right, Gene thought, watching Marc run to the side again where he began to dry-heave.

After a good two minutes of retching, he came slowly back.

Now his reddened eyes were tearing. Tough on the stomach muscles, Gene knew. The Eagle went right past him on his way to the head. Hoo-Ya, he thought, both ends going. He leaned against the cleaning table and waited for Marc’s next appearance.

“Sure you’re okay, buddy?” he asked when the Eagle came back.

“It’s got me going both ways.”

“All right,” Gene said. “What’s the op?” He waited while Marc looked around to make sure nobody was within hearing.

“Easy op,” he answered in a low voice. “We’re making a hit. Should only be out for about three to six hours.”

“I can fill in for you. You’ll be a security element anyway, and it sounds like it’s going to be short and sweet.”

Marc wiped his face with the T-shirt again. “Sure you don’t mind?”

Gene shook his head. “Anything for you, Eagle. You know that.”

“Let me go tell the PL and see what he says. We’ve already had the Warning Order, but I could fill you in on the basic equipment list.” He took a long, careful breath. “The PLO is at 2200 hours.”

“Go,” Gene said. “I’ll wait here.”

Poor guy, he thought, watching Marc walk away. He turned his back to the cleaning table and lifted himself up to sit on it. A cold beer’d taste good, but he couldn’t drink if he was going out on an op. If, hell, he thought. He’d be going.

Roland and Cruz walked past the table, crossing his line of sight. They paused. Gene stared down the Son Ku Lon. Roland and Cruz moved on without speaking.

Yeah. He’d be going. One more chance for revenge. The adrenaline began to flow.

“It’s all right,” Marc said when he returned, “but clear it with your OIC. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Gene eased himself off the table. “Just take it easy,” he added. He went to check in with Jim.

The lieutenant wasn’t at his rack. He looked around the hootch to see if Jim was playing cards. He wasn’t. On the way back out, Gene saw that the mail had come in. There were letters from Karen on his bunk. He scooped them up, opened his footlocker, and dumped them in with the unread stack that had buried the abandoned Bible. Since Willie’s death, the letters and the Bible had meant no more to him than a beer can tossed in the Son Ku Lon.

He left the hootch to check at the chow hall, thinking Jim might be getting some coffee. No luck. There were only forty minutes left before the PLO. He checked in the other hootch, where the third and fourth platoons were. Still no luck.

Frustrated, Gene walked back to Lima’s hootch. Just outside the door were shelves made of wooden ammo crates. They were used to store plastic explosives, grenades, flares, claymores, and such. Four large plastic bottles sat there as well, one each for aspirin, malaria tablets, salt tabs, and Dexamyl. From experimenting with them just after arriving in Vietnam, he’d learned he could take only one and a half tabs of the Dexies. If he took two, he’d flip out, be seeing things that weren’t there.

Gene opened one of the bottles, took two Dexamyls out, and laid them atop the shelf. He drew the bowie, laid the blade across one tab, and gently tapped the top of the knife. It sliced the tab cleanly in half. A few swigs of beer washed one and a half tabs down. For the next eighteen hours or so he’d be ready to go do anything. He tossed the rest of the beer over the side, into the Son Ku Lon.

Back in the hootch, he put on a pair of jeans and a cami top before picking up the 60’s ammo belts and crisscrossing them around his chest and waist. There were no lower pockets on the shirt he’d tucked into his waistband. From the time some of the 60’s rounds had gotten snagged, when he’d broken them off to reload, the first thing he’d done with a new shirt was tear off its bottom pockets.

Gene had just fastened the last belt of ammo around his waist when Brian and the old man walked in. The point man’s face looked like thunder.

“Brian, what’s wrong?”

“We tried to get the old man into the KCS camp but they turned us down.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “We’ve got to send him out in the morning.”

Gene glanced at the old man. Obviously he didn’t know what Brian was talking about. He was just smiling away. Of course he was pretty shit-faced. Didn’t seem to recognize him. Or, he suddenly thought, was it that they all looked alike to the old man? “Sorry to hear that. Why not have Jim or Johnny try?”

Brian grimaced. “They did. They were with me over at the camp.”

“Are they back yet?”

“Yeah. They’re either over at Johnny’s or at the chow hall for coffee.” He whacked the door frame, then headed for his rack, the old man carrying part of a bottle of JD and following along.

The sight reminded Gene of a frustrated kid walking down the street with a tail-wagging puppy underfoot.

When Brian got to his rack, he opened his footlocker, pulled out a bottle of Scotch, took a big swallow, then reached in again to take out a
Playboy
magazine. From across the hootch, Gene watched him open it to the centerfold. He showed the old man. Raggedy’s face lit up. He laughed and reached out to touch the picture.

Gene doubted the old man had ever seen a naked “round-eyes” before. The Vietnamese women had very small breasts, and both men and women had very little pubic hair. No doubt Raggedy was amazed at the centerfold. They do well together, he thought, Brian and the old man. Brian would be hurting inside, having to send him away. Raggedy would be going to a POW camp. Still, it would be better there than the way he must have had to live these past years.

He’d get three square meals a day, dry and clean clothing, and a roof over his head.

It was time. In full combat gear and green face, Gene walked over behind Doc, who was dealing in a card game. “If anyone looks for me, tell them I went out with Marc’s platoon.”

Gene got his 60 and left before Doc could get a good look at him. The pills were taking effect. He felt full of energy and mentally sharp as he headed for the briefing room. The night was warm and muggy, the sky clear. Got to be very careful tonight, he warned himself. Plenty of starlight out there. No rain to hide sound.

“Gene!”

He turned to see Jim and Johnny coming toward him.

“Where are you going?” Jim asked.

“Marc’s got the flu or something. I agreed to take his place. It’s okay, isn’t it?”

Jim planted his hands on his hips and looked him over. “You’ve been running hard lately. How do you feel?”

“Good. Real good.” The Dexamyl he’d taken was hitting. His body felt a little off. Had to get by Jim. Wanted to be on his way. “Well? Is it okay?”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Should be back before dawn.”

“It’s all right this time, but next time, clear it with me before you agree.”

Gene let out his breath. “Jim, I tried, but I couldn’t find you. Never had any problems before, so I agreed. Marc is sick as a dog. I wasn’t trying to go around you.”

“I know,” Jim said. “I just don’t want you down again.”

Gene nodded. The pills weren’t setting too good, but he was committed. “No problem. Got to get to the brief. I’ve only got a few minutes.”

Jim didn’t move. “Gene, when you get back in, I want you to see the doctor.”

At Gene’s frown, he added, “Just for a checkup.”

“Yes, sir! Thanks.”

He started toward the briefing room. Jim and Johnny were on their way to the hootch, but when Gene stopped to adjust the bowie, he overheard Johnny say, “Something’s not right with him.

He’s been—” Gene missed the rest, as they walked out of hearing range. He shrugged, went on to the briefing room, and took his usual chair.

He was barely seated when Marc’s PL, Devin Walker, announced, “Tonight’s mission is to eliminate the province chief. Hard intel shows he’s playing both sides and has interfered with several ops in the recent past.”

So now he dies, Gene thought, and leaned forward, listening as Dev went over every detail at length—what to do at the objective, no friendly forces, no prisoners.

“Just get in and get out before anyone wakes up,” Dev said. “Point man, radioman, and I will be the search element. Gene will be taking Marc’s place in the security element. Gene,” he said, pointing to an exact location on the chalkboard diagram, “I want you at this point so you can see most of the village, to take it under fire if need be. Freddy, you’re here,” he added, pointing at another location. “Understood?”

Gene nodded when Dev looked at him. Everything was pretty much SOP.

“Any questions?” The PL glanced around. None of the SEALs said anything. “Let’s move out. Get on the boats and under way in five minutes.”

Gene stood and opened the door.

When the squad reached the MSSCs, sampans were already tied down on top of the bows, and the boats were warmed up. When the last man had boarded, they pulled away, heading for the drop-off point.

During the ride, the only sounds Gene heard were the engines. No one moved, no one spoke. Not even Freddy Fanther, with his XM-203, sitting two men away from Dev. It was almost as though he were out there alone. Very alone—like each man was isolated inside the bubble of his own silence, his own thoughts.

The boats turned north and slowed to an idle, moving quietly into the enemy’s backyard. The sound of their diesels softened even more. The word was passed.

“Get ready.”

The MSSCs turned into the bank. The sampans were lowered gently into the water. The squad loaded into them for the long, slow trip upriver to their objective.

As they paddled north, they stayed on the east side of the river, using the tree shadows cast by the moonlight. Very quietly, they floated farther and farther into enemy territory. Like the others, Gene carefully lifted his paddle out of the water and gently placed it back in at each stroke, to avoid any splashing.

Just a nice smooth ride up the river, he thought. A moonlight cruise.

It was almost 0100 hours when they eased past a small village where everyone was fast asleep. In their silent passing, he could see the glow from the cooking fires, which also provided the villagers with light. The objective was about a mile farther on. With twenty to thirty minutes left until they reached the target, the boats glided to a halt.

Gene used the time to put on more green and black face paint, making sure to cover all visible skin—eyelids, ears, inside the ears, neck, hands. Huddled near to him, the six SEALs from Delta’s squad did the same.

When they’d finished, the sampans continued to creep toward the village and the target.

Gene went over the details with every stroke of his paddle. They knew which hootch in the village—even knew the location inside the hootch—the province chief would be sleeping in, lying on a bamboo floor mat. Get in, get out. Short and sweet. Just make the hit. They were in a free kill zone. Everybody was enemy. While the search element was inside, he could say they were spotted, and then would be allowed to take the entire place under fire. Why not hit them all? They had the element of surprise, had the firepower. Since the target was on a river, they could scramble the Sea Wolves for support.

Come on, Gene, he told himself, you know you’ve got to stay with the plan. Even though it was a free kill zone, he couldn’t lower himself to Colonel Nguyen’s level. Couldn’t kill just to kill—unless they had weapons in their hands. Not likely. There’d be kids in there, and it wasn’t their war. But God, he ached to. Couldn’t blow away enough of them to make up for Willie. He wanted to see blood run in floods.

The sampans pulled into the bank. The squad inserted. While the security element set security, the search team pulled the sampans onshore and hid them just inside the tree line.