The Daisy Ducks (4 page)

"We're not. Mr. Roantis is!"

"Don't get wiseassed. That stuff screws up your
chromosomes!"

"Booze kills your brain cells! You're living
proof!"

Well, I was about to go right up there and kick some
ass. Yes sir. If I hadn't been so under the weather I would have just
gone right up there and done just that. Except those snotnose punks
now outweigh me by twenty pounds each and row varsity crew. Oh well,
I'd let it pass this time . . .

Roantis was filling the room with pungent smoke when
I returned. Mary and I had coffee. I had added a wee drop of Dewar's
to mine. I lighted my cigar again and we listened.

Roantis's blue eyes took on a languid softness from
the dope.

"The special long-range patrols . . ." he
said. Then, as he squinted in recollection, the eyes became focused,
sharp, steely gray blue. He hesitated for an instant, fixing the
scene in his mind, then continued.

"The special long-range patrols were officially
called reconaissance patrols. We did recon work, sure. But our job
was really to search and destroy. This was always behind enemy lines.
We carried only small arms and took Russian Kalishnikov rifles so we
could use enemy ammo if we had to. We were to radio back the enemy's
size and strength. Whenever possible, we were to snatch a man or two
and interrogate them to see what they had planned. We would then
destroy the staging area and as many of the enemy as possible, moving
on to the next target."

"How did you find these targets?" I asked.

"Walked onto 'em. Looked for tire tracks in mud
or packed dirt. Fresh oil spots on roads, reflections from
windshields . . . you know. But mostly just walked through the
countryside until we spotted something . . . or heard some commotion.
Oh, they had the stuff hidden from the air. You bet. But not from
ground level. They weren't expecting any GIs within eighty miles."

"Then you'd blow up the supplies?"

“
Uh-huh."

"But if you packed the stuff in, how'd you carry
it all?"

"We dint. We dint carry the explosives. It was
all done from the air. All we carried to do our work were dozens of
little transmitters no bigger'n a pack of butts. They had metal
spikes on their side and bottom: you could stick 'em into the ground
or onto trees. Some had li'l magnets so you could stick 'em on a
vehicle. Just make sure their li'l red eyes are pointing up, that's
all. Then you'd set them so they'd start to transmit all at once at a
prearranged time. That beam guides the smart bombs right down on top
of them. If you encircled a camp or supply depot with four or five of
these, there's no way it could remain on earth—not with those
two-thousand-pound bombs coming down on it. So we didn't take
anything but small arms and the transmitters. We just didn't need
anything else. A B-fifty-two can fly so high it's silent and
invisible from the ground. Under the jungle canopy, where the Panvin
and VC hid all their stuff and men, there was no way they could know
what was coming down on them until it happened. Until it was just too
late. That's how the eight Ducks did all that damage. And by the time
it happened we were always miles away, walking through the darkness
under that canopy. They never knew what hit them."

He paused to snuff out the remains of the joint. When
it had cooled sufficiently, he took the roach end and popped it into
his mouth, swallowing it with a gulp of Scotch. Then he lit a Camel.
Roantis's body was doomed to a continual barrage of punishment, if
not from military foes or crazed karate opponents in white robes,
then from his own excesses.

"We'd start these li'l country walks from a
secret base in Thailand. Be lifted out either in a chopper or a
fixed-wing transport like a Hercules C-one-thirty. If it was by
chopper we'd drop into the LZ in the dead of night. If we jumped
in—which was rare—we'd do it at dusk so if we hit a hot spot we
could evade in cover of darkness. Sometimes the drop zones were
picked by other recon teams in the bush. These men, on their way out,
would be our reception committee when we hit the zone. The insertion
point was usually a two-day walk from the beginning of the staging
areas."

Roantis got up from the table and paced around the
porch. He stretched and grunted to relieve the tension that had crept
into him. He strolled over to the window, peered out quickly, and
returned to the table.

"We'd move out right away, putting a few miles
between us and the LZ, then go to earth for the night. Then, before
dawn next morning, we'd head toward the staging areas near the
Vietnamese border. We just walked, single file, sixty feet apart, and
as quiet as cats along these jungle and mountain trails. If we had to
cross open plains or marshes—and there are a lot of these in
Cambodia—then we'd wait and rest under the foliage until dark, then
sneak across. We worked as we went. Twice we wasted entire villages
because the enemy had commandeered them and were using them as bases.
We knew there were women and children in those huts, too. That was
one of Charlie's favorite ploys. We never got over it though. It
drove Royce nuts later. He never was the same. But in those two
villages alone we killed over six hundred enemy soldiers.

"After about eight to ten days of this, we'd
head for the border and link up with friendlies. Then, at the first
fire support base or special forces camp, we'd lift out to Nha Trang
and debrief. After four days of R and R, we'd go back at it again,
this time starting from Vietnam. We'd walk into and through Cambodia
back toward the remote boonies, where we'd get airlifted out again to
Thailand. So there we went, back and forth, back and forth. Just find
the enemy and mark him for the kill. No combat. There were lots of
these teams operating up and down the border between Tet and late
sixty-nine. I tell you, it worked like downtown. And we gave them no
peace."

"How long before the Reds caught on?" I
asked.

"Hah! Not long, man. They knew right away that
there were recon men operating in their midst. How else could we be
hitting them square on the noggin each time? I tell you Doc, we made
each of those blockbusters count. We hit 'em each and every time—and
know what? We scared the shit outa them. Those huge antipersonnel
bombs open up a thousand feet above the ground. Each of them spit out
twenty canisters of grapeshot. These would fall another five hundred
feet, fanning out. Then they'd
go off
together, taking every leaf off every tree —"

Mary had had enough. She interrupted to say
goodnight, and leaned over and kissed Roantis on the side of his
haggard face.

"That's for saving my husband's life," she
said, then looked at me, "although it turned out not to be worth
it. Goodnight everyone. And don't drink any more, Charlie. You're in
enough trouble already."

She left us alone. Whether Roantis had actually saved
my life or not, he had certainly saved me from a hell of a beating.
Four months earlier, two South End bloods jumped me in the parking
lot near the BYMCU. One whanged me a good one on the head when I
foolishly tried to fight back. I had learned just enough self-defense
stuff from Roantis to try it. It was no go. His pal was coming at me
with a knife, blade low, edge up, when Roantis blew in on the scene
like a dust devil. In less than ten seconds it was all over, though I
was on the ground and barely conscious enough to witness it. Roantis
was all hands and feet, moving like lightning. Now, as I stared at
the weary face of the fifty-five-year old veteran, it was hard to
imagine he'd been so swift and lethal. They led one punk away in
bracelets; the other one needed a stretcher.

"Thanks again for saving my skin in the parking
lot, Liatis. You knew when you called tonight I couldn't refuse you."

He pointed a stubby and stained linger at my chest.

"Now Doc. Maybe you've been wondering why I
invited myself here. It wasn't just to mingle with all those fancy
people and drink free booze."

"Well I know it wasn't for the fancy people
anyway. I assume that your surprise visit, besides enabling you to
consume twenty bucks worth of free hooch, has something to do with
the statue."

"Uh, right. It's all gotta do with Siu Lok's
loot. That's why I brought the pictures."

"But we only saw one picture," said Mary,
reentering the porch with a mug of warm milk.

"Decided to hear more of the story?" I
asked.

"Uh-huh. Besides, I'm so edgy I couldn't sleep
now if I tried. Okay Liatis, I'm all ears again."

"Oh yeah," said Roantis, "the other
picture." He produced another folded snapshot. He placed it on
the table between us. The picture ran horizontally, with the crease
running through the middle from left to right. In the picture were
eight men: three standing in back and five kneeling on one knee in
front. Rather like a sports team. The white crease lay above the
heads of the kneeling men and across the stomachs of those standing.
It obscured nobody's face. The men wore camouflage fatigues, but not
any fancy insignia or headgear, nor any badges or rank. No weapons
were visible. Roantis, looking deeply tanned and quite a bit younger
and thinner, was standing proudly in back center, his hands clasped
behind him. He was obviously team leader. Two of the men were black,
and both wore mustaches. Two seemed to be Hispanic, and one of them
wore the trim, lean mustache so favored by many Latinos. One of the
kneeling men had a broad, flat Asian face and small tight eyes. Two
of the men were very big: one of the blacks and a tall, blond giant
with a big gold handlebar mustache.

I saw that three of the men had black X 's marked on
their chests in pen.

"These guys dead?"

"Yeah. Well, two are dead and the other guy
might as well be. Hill Royce, an air force commando, went nuts in
seventy-two. He's still in a hospital in the Philippines. This guy
here, Larry Jenkins, was an SF trooper who worked with me several
times out of Long Binh. He did long-range recon work all over Laos,
too. After the Daisy Ducks, he went back to Laos to recruit and train
more mercenaries. He was missing in action on the Plain of Jars up
there. Larry was the best of the best. This guy here, Ton Youn, was a
Korean. ROK special forces. Great soldier. Mean sonofabitch, too. He
was our interrogation man. He was hit on the outskirts of Saigon in
seventy-one by a sniper."

"So there are five Daisy Ducks left?"

"Right. Mike Summers here was the other black
guy besides Jenkins. Ghetto kid from Chicago. Tough as hell, and
hands quick as lightning for a big guy. You can see how big he is.
Got him from the one-oh-one. Good man. Solid and brave. He's back in
Chicago now. South Side. Now this guy, the other spic besides
Vilarde, is a Puerto Rican named Jusuelo. Jesus Jusuelo. Now he just
might be the best soldier of all the Ducks. He was a navy SEAL.
Anyway, Jusuelo's a merc now, just like I used to be, somewhere in
Africa I think."

"Do you know where in Africa?" Mary asked.

"Nah. He probably moves around. Hell, there are
twenty places right now in Africa where a good merc can find work."

I tapped the man with the big gold mustache.

"This guy looks right out of the SS."

"Hmmmmph! Yeah, could've been, twenty years
earlier. Dat's Fred Kaunitz. Big fella from Texas. Heard he can
wrestle a bull to the ground. Not a steer or calf, a bull. He's slow
and deliberate, and very careful. He was a smart kid, Fred, but
quiet. Strange maybe. Never talked much. Like I heard that bull story
from a friend of his, not from him. He never talked about himself. A
loner and a perfectionist. The best shot of all of us. Rifle or
shotgun, still target or moving, if it was in front of Fred's muzzle
it was gone."

"And where is he now?"

Roantis shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know. Last I heard, back on the family
ranch in Texas. I'll be tracking him down, but I'm sure he doesn't
keep in touch with the army guys. It wouldn't be like him, you know?
As soon as the job was done, he just went back to Texas. This one's
Vilarde. He's the one I want to find. That's why I came here
tonight."

"Yeah? Well forget it, Liatis. I know I owe you
a big favor. Someday, if you're unlucky in a fight, I'll fix your jaw
for free. I'll pull all your family's teeth out—no charge. But I'm
not having anything to do with these guys. No way."

"Amen," said Mary.

"Vilarde is as solid as they come. He was second
in command in the Ducks. After the Ducks, I quit the army. I knew we
weren't going to win over there and I guess I was sick of it. I'd
been in one defeat already, up at Dien Bien Phu. I didn't need
another one."

Roantis was getting morose again; I persuaded him to
put the booze away and switch to coffee.

"Well here's what happened," he continued.
"It was on one of our sweeps eastward, from Thailand toward the
Vietnamese border. On the fourth day out we came up to a little
hillside at dusk and made dry camp. No lights or noise. There was a
tiny village down below us in a river valley. We glassed it in the
dying daylight just before we turned in. It was only thirteen or
fourteen hooches, some of them for three families. It was built along
the river, and there were all kinds of boats pulled up on the bank.
We planned to get moving before dawn and just bypass it, crossing the
river and then following the jungle and mountain trails looking for
tire tracks.