Men in Green Faces (36 page)

The 60’s weight, and the nine hundred belted rounds, cut into Gene’s shoulders. No time to think about what-ifs—it was too late. He had to think light, like a feather drifting on a cool summer’s night. He moved smoothly and silently, weaving ever so carefully through.

Ahead, twelve hootches dotted a six-hundred-square-meter clearing. They skirted around its edge, using the shadows and dark jungle foliage.

Fifty minutes more, and the shit would hit the fan. Not far now, Gene thought, his attention focused on two hootches set apart, about twenty meters from the north side of the clearing’s edge. They needed to get around to them, without any enemy waking. It was a real quiet area. With their patrols out on the far perimeter, and the base camp at least three-quarters of a mile away, the enemy must feel damned safe here. There weren’t even any roving guards. He moved into another shadow.

It was too perfect. Maybe knowing he had the province chief on the take, and that the chief would keep out all military action, the colonel had let his guard down. Gene breathed carefully, controlling even that, as he set each foot down.

But maybe information on their op had leaked out, and they were moving deeper and deeper into a death trap. He cut off the thought.

Almost directly behind the two hootches, the squad slowed down, then stopped to look and listen for movement. Any movement at all.

Gene caught Jim’s signal to disappear and become one with the earth. As one, the squad eased their bodies into the heavy brush and were gone from sight.

All they could do now, Gene thought, was wait. Wait to see if the diversion would work. Would Nguyen stay behind? Would the helos be on time? If they were late by five minutes, it would be day, and they’d surely be detected. They had nowhere to run, and limited ammo. If it hit the fan, they’d never see tomorrow, but they’d take as many NVA with them as they could. Even Doc.

He stared at the two hootches. The man he hated so much lay peacefully sleeping inside one of them. He concentrated, sending a silent message that he was there, and wondered if the colonel could hear him talking in his dreams. Today, Nguyen would meet his maker.

From his position, Gene could make out the rest of the squad. Except for Roland, they were all facing the hootches. Roland faced to their rear and guarded their backs.

Minutes ticked past. Only a few remained until the choppers were due. He listened intently and finally heard the very faint hum, not of insects, but of rotor blades. Lots of them.

Be still, Gene warned himself. Be still. The helos were coming closer and closer. And louder. He heard movement around the hootches and talking. Then thirty to forty NVA ran for cover in the jungle’s edge. There was movement behind the squad’s position. If they weren’t well concealed, he thought, they had seconds to live.

The helos came in from the south and aimed for the landing zone, flying high so they’d be seen. As the first wave of seven peeled down, Gene thrilled with pride. Gunships broke formation and circled the landing choppers. Perfect to the second. At the same instant, dawn broke on the horizon.

Orders were being given, and enemy troops surrounded them. Five thousand to seven…

The gunships opened up. It sounded like World War III had erupted half a mile away. The NVA hit it, running toward the landing zone. Man, Gene thought, look at them all. It was still too dark to make out more than forms running to the east, but there were a lot of them. Making a helluva noise yelling. The choppers were drawing heavy fire.

He focused on the hootches, where armed men were standing, and hoped the squad stayed undetected for the next ten minutes. One man ran toward another, who was standing alone, off to the side of the first hootch. The standing man yelled at the runner when he stopped, slapped his face, and pointed toward the landing zone. The runner took off.

And Gene suddenly realized the solitary man had to be Nguyen. It’s you, he thought. It’s you! He sized the enemy up. Nguyen was taller than most Vietnamese—five ten or five eleven, maybe 170 pounds. His muscles were the long, hard, ropy kind, his movements smooth and fast. As a former Vietnamese SEAL, he was no doubt a black belt in tae kwon do. He’d smacked that guy like a striking snake. Just
wham!

Head tipped downward so the whites of his eyes didn’t show, Gene studied Nguyen and felt the slow burn of his hatred fueling the desire for Nguyen’s neck in his hands. No matter what training the murderous bastard had, he could take him, if he ever got his hands on him.

The OV-10s opened up with their 20mm cannons and all hell broke loose half a mile away.

It was deafening with the heavy automatic weapons, explosions, the gunfire, and yelling to the left, but there was no movement around them.

Click…click.

At the finger snaps, he turned his head to see Jim’s signal.

Slowly, slowly, he left the concealing jungle, hoping no NVA were behind them while they crept out. Every man in the squad knew what his next steps would be as they all moved in on the objective. He smiled to himself. Their hard target. His. And he thought, Colonel, you’re mine. They were going to pull it off.

Jim signaled Roland to make contact with their Sea Wolves. Without hesitation, Roland switched his radio on, and at the same time Jim waved the squad forward. They had less than ten minutes to make the hit and get out.

Brian and Jim ran toward the hootch on the left, leaving Roland to cover the rear and make the contact with the Wolves for the squad’s pickup and extraction. Doc, You-O, and Alex were to take out the communications hootch, while Gene had orders to deliver heavy fire at any resistance from either hootch.

As they sprinted the thirty meters to the backs of the hootches, four of the six guards were visible, as was Brian’s target, the colonel, still standing apart from the others.

Amazingly, their attention drawn toward the sounds of gunfire, none of the enemy saw or heard the SEALs coming. Gene hadn’t believed they’d be able to cover the thirty meters without having to open up. They had. Without signals, as if they’d rehearsed it, the squad stepped out simultaneously from behind the hootches and opened up on the bodyguards.

Nguyen ran, and Brian took off in pursuit.

“Fuck!”

Gene spun, saw Doc on the ground, and cut loose on the communications hootch, ripping it to shreds with the 60.

Doc got to his feet.

“You okay?” Gene called.

“Yeah.”

“Set security,” Jim yelled. “Roland, get the Wolves in here. Now! We need them. Now!”

Brian shouted, “I’ve got him! He tried to duck into a tunnel.”

The squad set security in a circle, fifteen meters away from Jim, in the center. Brian was yelling at Nguyen to move, trying to drag the colonel to Jim’s location.

“Gene,” Jim yelled, “help Brian. Roland, get over here with the radio. Where are the Wolves?”

“On their way.”

“How far out?”

“Five minutes,” Gene heard, running to assist Brian. But when he came face-to-face with Nguyen, he shook with a sudden fury. Once they’d made their move on the hootches, he’d momentarily forgotten about killing the colonel, caught up in the execution of tactics. Now he went cold.

Brian was struggling to handcuff the colonel. Without thought, Gene hit Nguyen harder than he’d ever hit anything or anyone. The blow lifted Nguyen off the ground and rocked him back three feet.

With the colonel lying dazed on the ground, Gene stood over him, shifted the 60, and reached for his bowie.

“Gene, don’t!”

He twisted away from Brian’s grip on his arm and looked him in the eyes. “Stand off.”

“Jim,” Brian yelled, “get over here!”

The bowie hissed from its sheath. Gene knelt over Nguyen, grabbed a handful of his hair, and lifted his head to expose his throat. A single sweep of his blade, and Nguyen’s head would be severed from his neck.

He stared into the colonel’s dark eyes. “You sonofabitch.”

Nguyen hissed at him.
“Dau-mau-mee!”

Gene brought the blade down and stopped it, barely breaking the skin at the side of Nguyen’s neck. He held it there.

“Gene!” Jim yelled.

“Wolves,” Roland shouted, “four minutes out.”

A gentle slice across the neck with the bowie would cut the carotid artery. Bloody death in less than a minute. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Gene.”

“Don’t worry, Jim,” he said, not breaking eye contact with Nguyen. But don’t think I wouldn’t like to. He grabbed a handful of the colonel’s black hair, jerked him to his feet, and half-shoved, half threw him at Brian, three feet away.

“Get that fucker tied up, and gag him,” Jim ordered. “Quick. We’re out of here.”

“Wolves coming in three,” Roland yelled.

Gene turned just in time to see the Wolves appear far out, over the treetops. They were coming in low from the west, to extract them.

The squad had moved to encircle Brian and the now docile Nguyen and secure their position for extraction. Gunfire and rocket explosions filled the morning air. Brian, gripping Nguyen’s arm, was shifting his weight so he could throw his prisoner down to handcuff him.

“Fuck you!” Nguyen, in a burst of motion flipped Brian to the ground and snatched the K-bar knife from his H-harness before any of the squad could move. He took a few fast steps backward, putting him a good eight feet from Brian.

Almost instantly back on his feet, Brian swung his Stoner up and aimed. By then, the entire squad had Nguyen in their weapons’ sights.

“Come on, you fucking American pigs!” Nguyen yelled, brandishing the knife. “I’m not going back alive!”

“Drop the knife,” Jim ordered.

“
Dau-mau-mee
, ” Nguyen replied. “Come and get it.”

Gene ached to trigger the 60. But their orders were to capture the colonel if at all possible, and he seemed to know it.

“Wolves,” Roland shouted, “two minutes out.”

“Drop the fucking knife,” Jim yelled at Nguyen, “or we’ll blow you away.”

“Do it!” Nguyen yelled back. “You American assholes are weak. You die easy, like Willie, like the Green Beret officer, like the French. This is our country. You’ll never defeat us.”

Jim spoke to Brian, standing just to his right. “Take him out.”

“No!” Gene shouted. “No! Wait! Jim, he knew Willie’s name! He has an informant back at the Float!”

“Wolves, one minute out,” Roland yelled. “What do I tell them?”

“Nothing,” Jim yelled back. “Let them come in. You got this, Gene?”

“Yes, sir. I can take him alive.”

Gene handed Jim the 60, pulled the bandoliered ammunition off over his head, and dropped the belts to the ground.

Nguyen, poised and waiting, wore a half-smile.

Gene walked slowly to within three feet of him.

“If Gene gets into trouble,” Jim commanded, “blow the fucker’s head off.”

Gene moved closer, and Nguyen slashed out with Brian’s razor sharp knife, missing—but not by much. As they circled each other, Nguyen slashed out twice more, but was blocked each time. Then, suddenly, he charged, in an attempt to stab.

Gene grabbed Nguyen’s arm as he thrust the blade toward his stomach, and twisted it while stepping forward and under, flipping the colonel to the ground. Controlling Nguyen’s arm, he used a wristlock until the knife fell from the colonel’s grip. When he reached down to retrieve the K-bar, Nguyen kicked him in the head. He lost his grip on the colonel’s arm, and suddenly they were in a wrestling match. The other SEALs closed in to club Nguyen into submission, but suddenly firing erupted close by.

“Contact! Contact!” Cruz yelled, and Gene heard him open fire, just as Nguyen went for his eyes. Now it really was one-on-one.

“On line with Cruz!” Jim yelled to the squad.”

As Gene and Nguyen fought, the rest of the SEALs opened up, trying to drive the enemy back into the jungle’s edge. Forces from the camp they had passed had heard the firing and were moving in to assist Nguyen’s troops. They had started to run right into the clearing when Cruz spotted them.

“Roland,” Jim shouted, “radio the Wolves to pull out. It’s a hot LZ!”

Overhead, the helos were thirty to forty feet from the deck when they got the call, and quickly pulled up.

Gene and Nguyen were in hand-to-hand combat, and Gene found fighting with Nguyen like doing battle with a wild animal. His twists and lunges were powerful, and he was incredibly fast. In addition, Gene was handicapped by his Levi’s and jungle boots. Nguyen had landed several hand-strikes, and Gene had a bloody nose and a gash above his left eye.

The sound of the firefight filled the air, and Gene recognized the sound of his own 60, just as Nguyen twisted loose and jumped back. He was almost smiling when Gene landed his first blow. His snap kick to Nguyen’s midsection sent the colonel back four feet.

“How do you know Willie’s name?” Gene asked as they circled each other, trying to find an opening for their next move.

“You Americans think we’re stupid,” Nguyen said. “We have men everywhere. I even know who you are now.”

He bolted forward with lightning speed, landing another blow to Gene’s jaw, and followed it with a kick to his stomach. When Gene doubled over, Nguyen came up with a knee to his head, sending him backward to the ground.

The squad had stopped the enemy from coming into the clearing, but were still receiving heavy fire from the jungle’s edge. There was no way of knowing how many enemy there were, nor whether they had radio contact with Nguyen’s other forces.

“Roland,” Jim called, glancing back at Gene and Nguyen, “have the Wolves lay down some rockets into their position, slow them down enough so we can get Nguyen secured.

Doc, Alex, Cruz—maintain fire! Roland, over here with me to call in and direct the Wolves’ rocket strike. Brian, get back there and help Gene,” Jim yelled. “Kill that fucker if you have to.”

Nguyen, winded, was standing over Gene. “You are Michaels,” he said triumphantly. “I have heard that you have searched for me a long time.” He moved in again, fast.

Gene rose to one knee and landed a powerful blow to Nguyen’s sternum, stopping him in his tracks.