Off Limits (11 page)

Jim could die in his attempt to alert the marines. Alex gripped his hand. And he was risking his freedom for her, too. “Why can't I go with you?”

He shook his head and released her hand. They didn't dare speak too much. “Too dangerous! I'll be back—I promise.” A bittersweet feeling wound through Jim and he reached out and touched her flushed cheek. Sweet God, how he wanted to kiss her parted, ripe lips one last time. But that was merely chasing an impossible dream. And so was telling Alex that he'd fallen just as deeply in love with her as she had with him.

There was no more time to think about his feelings toward Alex. Jim withdrew his hand from the caress and backed away on his belly without making a sound. If he failed in this attempt, Alex could die. Everything he'd ever learned as a recon, the stealth and focus, locked into place. This was one mission he couldn't fail. He might never be able to atone for killing Kim, but he knew that if he could get Alex back to her people, he'd feel a little better about himself as a human being.

Alex pressed her hand against her lips, stifling a cry as Jim disappeared into the jungle. Up ahead, rising through the trees and brush, she could barely make out the hill in the darkness. Her heart pounding, she lay pressed against the mortar crater's wall, covered with long, floppy leaves. Jim could be discovered by VC. They'd kill him. He had no rifle with which to defend himself, only a knife. And even then, he wouldn't raise a weapon against them. He'd die. Tears leaked into her eyes, and Alex lay fighting back the urge to scream out her terror.

* * *

“Don't shoot!” Jim rasped as he crawled up to a listening post at the bottom of the hill. “American! I'm American!” He saw the two young marines leap to a standing position from their large, deeply dug hole. Their eyes bulged. Both M-14's swung into his face. Not daring to sit up or stand for fear the VC would see him, Jim put both hands up.

“I'm a recon marine!” he snapped. “Corporal Jim McKenzie. There's a VC attack imminent. Get on your radio and tell your company commander. I've also got a woman by the name of Alex Vance nearby. She's the congressman's daughter. I rescued her from that chopper that got shot down. Come on! Move!”

The youngest marine's mouth dropped open. It was the older marine, a nineteen-year-old private first class, who reached for the radio in the bottom of their foxhole. Jim nodded and slowly moved around so that he could watch the jungle front with them. Once the marine got the commanding officer, Captain Byron Johnson, on the radio, Jim gestured to speak to him.

“Hold on, sir,” the marine said.

Jim nodded his thanks and took the radio. Quickly, he gave his name, rank and serial number. His eyes pinned on the jungle, he gave the officer all the vital information. His report was greeted with stunned silence.

“Get in here, Corporal McKenzie,” the company commander ordered after a moment.

“Yes, sir.” Jim handed back the radio and began crawling toward the line of concertina wire strung like three separate walls around the base of Hill 223. There was an opening through each of them, and once he passed the last wall of wire, he got up and sprinted the final two hundred feet as best he could on his splinted leg.

At the top of the hill a wide trench held several more marines, their M-14's locked and loaded. As Jim slid down into the trench, a gunny sergeant whose face looked like it had been kicked in by a boot, met him.

“Name's Gunny Whitman. Come with me, son. The CO wants to talk to you down in his command bunker.” The gunny looked down at his leg. “What outfit you with?”

Jim gave his outfit designation.

The gunny grunted as they crouched and trotted down the trench toward a bunker, a large rectangular hole dug into the ground and surrounded with hundreds of sandbags. The roof was made of huge rubber-tree logs covered with more sandbags.

Captain Byron Johnson, a marine in his mid-twenties with a black crew cut and dark brown eyes, stoically listened to Jim's story. The gunny sat nearby, his grizzled features set in a scowl. When Jim finished, he looked at the marine officer directly.

“Sir, I want you to know I deserted,” Jim said. “I was going to stay in the jungle and wait out this war. I'm not killing again. I'll go out and bring Miss Vance in if you give me cover fire. But I won't man a position, so there's no use in giving me a rifle.” Jim saw the officer's face go purple with fury, his brown eyes hard with rage.

Gunny Whitman got up and placed his hand on the officer's tense shoulder. “Cap'n, before we assume anything about this corporal, let's call Da Nang, get ahold of Lieutenant Breckenridge and see if his story's true. In the meantime, I'll get the standby company ready for the VC attack, as well as get the arty net zeroed in.”

“Very well,” Johnson snapped. He glared at Jim and jabbed a finger at him. “You don't move a muscle, McKenzie.”

“Yes, sir.” Worriedly, Jim looked out of the deep underground bunker. He'd told the captain about possible VC attack. Alex was out there alone, unprotected and unable to defend herself. Looking up, he saw the gunny walk back to the radio operator at the rear of the stuffy, dimly lit bunker. Down another tunnel was the medical area, where those who had been wounded the previous day were waiting for a medevac to fly in and take them to safety.

After fifteen minutes that felt like a lifetime to Jim, the captain and gunny came back over to him. Johnson eyed him warily.

“I just talked to Lieutenant Breckenridge. He says you're MIA, not AWOL. Just what the hell's going on here, Corporal?”

“Look, I'll explain later, if you don't mind, Captain. We gotta get Miss Vance in here! Every minute puts her life on the line. She's wounded. You need a medevac for her. The VC look like they're massing for an attack at dawn. If—”

“The boy's right, sir,” Gunny Whitman interrupted. “Let's get the woman in here and unravel this other thing with McKenzie later.”

Johnson glared at Jim. “Who's to say you won't leave and never come back?”

“I'll come back, sir. You've got my word.”

“Your word's no good!”

“Cap'n, with all due respect,” Whitman pleaded in a growly tone, “let this recon do his duty, sir. He brought the woman this far. I trust him to bring her in. We're sitting on top of an imminent VC attack. Let's get her in here.”

Relief plunged through Jim as the captain nodded. The gunny patted his shoulder and gave him the nod to leave. Just as Jim reached the top of the bunker, which led into the elaborate trench system dug around the hill, the first VC mortars whistled toward them.

“Incoming!”
screamed a marine in the trench, and everyone flattened against the earth.

Cursing, Jim hugged the ground, his head buried beneath his hands. The mortar exploded down the hill, blowing away part of the concertina. Curses and shouts filled the air as Gunny Whitman went charging down the trench system to get the marines prepared for the VC assault.

Without looking back, Jim made his way out of the trench, and through the three concertina gates. More mortar shells were being walked up the hill, becoming more accurate with each hit. The VC were firing away from where Alex was hidden, and for that, Jim was grateful. He had no choice, he decided. If Alex remained where she was, she would be killed as soon as counteroffensive fire began. Or the retreating VC could spot her and take her prisoner. Moving quickly past the last listening post, Jim told the two frightened marines he'd return with a woman shortly and not to shoot. Both marines nodded, their faces strained and pale in the dawn light.

His heart pounding, Jim reached the jungle wall, got stiffly to his feet, then disappeared into the foliage. The adrenaline pouring through him made him hyperalert. Every sound seemed magnified a hundredfold. The odor of rice and fish alerted him that a VC soldier was very near. Behind him, he heard the marines opening up with rifle fire. More mortars began to fall and explode. The earth shook. The stinging smell of gunpowder hurt his flared nostrils as he hobbled toward Alex's hiding place.

Just as he reached Alex, marine artillery began exploding around him. With a curse, Jim jerked off the banana leaves. To his relief, Alex was curled up in a tight ball in the bottom of the crater.

“Come on!” he yelled above the din, thrusting out his hand to her.

Alex gripped Jim's hand and was hauled up out of the crater. Dirt, rocks and tree bark pelted them. Biting back a cry, Alex followed Jim, clinging to his hand. Bullets sang around her, crashing and ricocheting through the jungle. More than once Jim pulled her down beside him and protected her with his body. Each time, the artillery shell would explode, and Jim would pull her up and begin to run for the hill again.

Alex knew she was going to die. She could taste it in her mouth. The battle joined with new ferocity just as Jim guided her out of the jungle and toward the listening post. They needn't have worried about the two frightened marines shooting at them. The LP was abandoned, the marines ordered to withdraw because all the territory outside the concertina wire was now considered enemy territory.

Bullets slammed into the earth nearby, geysers of dirt spewing into the air. Alex crawled through the concertina with Jim's help. More mortars exploded, Jim throwing himself across her to protect her each time. How many times he'd been hit by falling debris—or even shrapnel—Alex didn't know.

At the top of the hill Alex saw several marines put down their weapons, their hands reaching outward, grasping for her. With their help, Jim guided her into the trench. Alex's knees collapsed as she rolled into the safety of the trench. All around her she saw the frightened faces of young marines, staring at her as if she were an alien who had just dropped in from outer space.

“Get up!” Jim shouted, and he leaned over, gripping Alex by the waist and forcing her to her feet. “The bunker! Get to the command bunker!”

Dazed, Alex felt the steadying hands of other marines guiding her toward what looked like a darkened cave surrounded by sandbags. At the entrance, she felt Jim's arm go around her waist and guide her down the series of rough-hewn wooden steps. Her legs were so wobbly she was afraid she would fall. Suddenly they stopped and, blinking, out of breath, Alex looked up. They stood at the bottom of the steps. Naked light bulbs were strung along the dirt-and-sandbag walls. At least five marines there manned radios at one end. A navy corpsman, blond and baby-faced, ran past Alex, heading out of the bunker.

“Come on,” Jim urged, his voice strained. He guided her toward another tunnel. “This medic's got things set up in here. Stay here, Alex,” he said, guiding her to a wooden stool. “Stay here and don't move.” At least four marines sat around her, all wounded.

“Jim!”

He turned back. Alex was frightened, her eyes huge with fear.

“I'm gonna get the corpsman, Alex. Just stay here. It's safer.”

Gasping for breath, Alex sat shaking on the stool. She looked at the marines. They stared back at her in disbelief. Adrenaline was kicking in hard, and she shook badly. The bunker quivered from the near-misses of VC mortars. Alex heard shouts, screams and orders rising above the din of warfare. Shutting her eyes, she tried not to cry out, tried not to scream. Jim was gone. But where? Had he run away? Had he disappeared back into the jungle?

No!
her heart cried. Lifting her chin, Alex saw a young navy corpsman carrying in a badly wounded marine. The man helping him was Jim McKenzie. Alex sobbed. Jim wasn't a coward, and she knew it. The unconscious marine was laid at her feet, and Alex got out of the way. Jim had turned and hobbled back into the trench. The corpsman quickly went to work.

Alex leaned over the medic. “Let me help. I'm a nurse.”

He glanced up, relief etched in his eyes. “Great! Get me the scissors over there. And the dressings.” He pointed to a dark green canvas bag against the wall. “Hurry! I'm losin' this guy. Hurry!”

Time blurred to a halt. Alex was aware of the mortar attack, the M-14's barking harshly against the enemy trying to overrun the hill. Jim came in time and again, carrying more wounded marines. Alex didn't have time to talk to him. She found herself on her knees helping Peters, the corpsman. As the battle waged and dawn crawled up the horizon, Alex found out from a marine with a leg wound that they were surrounded and heavily outnumbered.

“If they don't get air and arty in here, we're goners,” the private whispered.

Alex turned to Peters. “Is he right?” Her voice was way off-key.

“Yes, ma'am,” Peters replied calmly. “They've had us pinned down here for two weeks. We're low on ammo and supplies. The last medevac helo that tried to take out the wounded was grounded by bad weather.”

“Then,” Alex quavered, “we could all die.”

Peters nodded and took the compress from her hand. “Yeah, but not without one hell of a fight.”

J
im was worried but didn't say anything. His leg was bothering him, his limp pronounced. As he helped another wounded marine into the underground bunker for medical treatment, he saw Alex sitting down in the corner, her hand pressed against her eyes.

Delivering the marine to Peters, Jim walked between rows of men already in battle dressings, either lying down or sitting against the walls of the shuddering bunker as they waited stoically for a medevac. For the last hour, the battle had raged nonstop outside. Jim had delivered ammunition, helped relay messages to the front line when communications broke down and taken wounded out of the line of fire and to the safety of the bunker for medical attention.

Just as he was about to check on Alex, a runner gripped his arm.

“Captain Johnson wants to see you pronto,” he gasped, breathing hard.

Nodding, Jim reluctantly turned away, heading out of the humid, dank tunnel and back into the main area of the huge underground bunker. Captain Johnson was hovering over the radio operators. Inwardly, Jim thought of his own skipper, Matt Breckenridge, who would have been up in the trenches with his men, not down here taking cover in a bunker. The men taking the heat topside were being held together by Gunny Whitman, who knew what personal leadership was all about. Johnson was one of those officers who cared more about his own skin than that of his men.