the Last Run (1987) (46 page)

Lieutenant Gibson shook his head to clear it and spoke in a rasp: "Report."

Wade checked his men with a quick glance.' 'Three-one okay.''

Zubeck chimed in, "Two-one ready."

Toan stood up, walked deeper into the cave, and disappeared.

Lieutenant Gibson held Russian back and pointed his light into the darkness. The old man stepped into the light and pointed to his right. Gibson took a deep breath and motioned the others to follow.

Rose shook his head again at Preacher. "I ain't goin', man."

Preacher took his arm. "Come on, you can't stay here."

Rose frowned and began walking. "I hate this shit, man. I mean totally, big-time, hate it! You know, man?"

Preacher patted the small soldier's back. "I know."

Gibson followed the old man into a corridor that angled sharply right and abrupdy slanted upward at a forty-five-degree angle. The rock floor was rippled and a small stream of clear water ran down its center, glistening with iridescent specks. The cave narrowed to a three foot width and a four-foot height. The darkness was total except for the beam of yellow light from the flashlights. Toan scampered up the corridor like a monkey while Gibson hunched over awkwardly, panning his light nervously.

The tunnel angled again and became even steeper. The men had to crawl on their hands and knees, dragging their packs behind them.

Rose bumped his head for the umpteenth time and spun around, shining his light in Preacher's face. "I shoulda killed that stinking Yard the first time I see him! When I get outta here I'm gonna wring his puny neck. Then I'm. . ." He turned back around, mumbling, and began climbing again.

Matt Wade wasn't sure what claustrophobia was, but he knew that whatever it was, he had it. Twenty minutes in the darkness, seeing nothing but occasional flashes from a flashlight, had done him in. His heart pounded so loud and hard that he couldn't breathe anymore. The walls were closing in and suffocating him. He froze, unable to move another inch. He tried moving and clamped his eyes tightiy shut to will his body to move, but he was caught in unyielding fear.

Thumper nudged him. "What's wrong?"

Wade whispered, trying to form his words without screaming. "I. . . I'm sick."

Thumper crawled past and, taking Wade's arm, tugged him forward. "Don't worry. It'll pass. Put your mind on something else and shut your eyes.''

Wade shivered all the way inside. The dampness and darkness combined to make him so cold he thought he might freeze to death. Thumper pulled him along roughly, but talked confidently and calmly. "Just move your legs and push forward. You doin' fine. Think about Ginny and keep pushin'."

Toan had disappeared out of Gibson's light for several minutes, but the lieutenant didn't give a damn. He was too tired to worry. He was struggling just to move one bruised knee in front of the other. Suddenly his light shone on the old man's grinning face. The cave widened and Toan was standing. Gibson crawled a few more yards and joined him. Toan pointed up the steep corridor to a glorious sight. An opening. At least Gibson thought it was an opening. A strange, green-tinted light was twenty meters distant.

Gibson had to brace his hands on the cave walls to pull himself up the steep incline so as not to fall backward. He approached the opening cautiously, not sure what might be outside. As he neared he saw it was covered by an intricately woven spider web. Beyond the web was a tangle of leafy vines so thick that not a single speck of sunlight shone through.

Gibson slashed through the sticky web with the CAR-15 barrel as the others came up behind him. He then reached out carefully and made a small opening through the tangle of vine to see if they were in danger. All he could make out was a steep, tree- covered embankment a few meters distant. Pushing more of the vine back and bringing up his CAR-15, he slid out into the glorious sunlight.

He found himself at the base of a huge, ten-meter-high boulder that had a strange dwarf tree protruding from its top. The tree was beautiful, but it had hideous, snaky roots that crawled down the rock face. Gibson readied his weapon and peered cautiously around the boulder. A tranquil stream shaded by bamboo was only a few meters away. The muffled roar of a waterfall behind the boulder told Gibson his exact location. They were in the saddle between the ring of the mountains. Gibson motioned the others out.

Childs shut his eyes, listening to the radio-relayed message from Lietuenant Foley, who was flying five miles away from the Stadium.

'Base, Patrol One reports reaching the top and will soon begin search, over."

Childs snatched up the handset. "Three Alfa, have you got a sit rep from Team One-three, over?

"Base, that's a negative. Haven't heard from them in an hour since they began moving toward the Stadium. Over."

Childs cursed under his breath. Selando wasn't following the standard procedure of calling in every hour with a situation report. It could be negligence or . . . "Three Alfa, keep trying to contact Team One-three and report contact immediately. Over."

"Roger. Out."

Sergeant Bill Selando held the handset to his ear, listening to Lieutenant Foley call him, but didn't dare whisper a response.

His team had moved toward the Stadium at first light, following a densely vegetated streambed. They'd moved only three kilometers when the point man froze in his tracks and slowly sank to the ground. The morning ground fog had dissipated, and when the point man parted a stand of large ferns he found himself staring at rows of strung-up blue hammocks full of lounging NVA.

The team had walked part of the way into a huge NVA camp. Selando had tried to back the team out, but several NVA had awakened close to the stream and had started a small fire. Now they were eating. The camp was only fifteen feet from the six men hiding in the bamboo thicket. Selando was afraid to breathe, let alone try and whisper a message.

Lieutenant Foley tried calling again. Selando carefully pushed the side bar twice to break squelch.

Foley immediately sat up in his seat. The squelch breaks meant Selando had a radio problem or couldn't talk.

"One-three, this is Three Alfa. If you are having radio problems break squelch twice."

There was nothing but static in the headphones. Foley held his breath for an instant then hit the floor switch again. "One-three, if you're in trouble break squelch twice." The static in his earphones stopped two distinctive times.

"Shit!" blurted Foley to himself. "One-three, are there dinks close by?"

Again there were two breaks.

"One-three, understand you're close to dinks. Are you close to their camp?"

Selando squeezed twice, wishing he could yell. "Hell, yes, we're close-you wanna talk to some of 'em?"

"One-three, this is important. Break squelch once for each kilometer you're away from the Stadium."

Selando pressed the bar three times. Foley's palms were slippery from sweat. He shut his eyes, forcing his brain to think of other questions he should ask. He pressed the switch. "One- three, I'll remain on station and alert Guns. Get out of there as soon as possible. I'm going off push to report your situation, then I'll be back."

J. D. Gibson watched Sergeant Zubeck and his team disappear up the slope, then motioned for Wade to move the team out. The two teams had split according to plan. Zubeck would recon the ring of hills to the north and he and Wade's team would check out those to the south. Russian led, with Toan walking close behind. The old man had told Russian of a trail that ran along the ring of mountains and of the spirit house only a short distance away.

The Czech crossed the stream and began climbing the steep slope. The team had seen footprints on the creek's bank and held their weapons ready. Rose had whispered that the prints were only a day old.

The TOC was a beehive of activity. Childs had received the excited message from Lieutenant Foley about Selando's predicament only minutes before. All the officers were gathered around maps, talking to their respective units by telephone, reporting the NVA camp location. The Army liaison had already alerted two sets of Guns. The Air Force liaison had called for a pair of F-4s to stand by and was waiting to get a time for a B-52 mission. Colonel Ellis was talking to Corps Headquarters.

Major Shane sat silently in his chair. He looked at Childs worriedly and glanced back at the map.

Childs walked over and sat down beside him. "Don't worry, Ed, they're in a good hide position. They'll be able to wait it out and get away."

Shane nodded without taking his eyes from the map.

The Air Force liaison set down his phone and stood up. "We've got a B-52 cell diverted to us! The 307th out of Thailand is diverting three B-52s. They'll be over target in three hours."

Shane glared at Colonel Ellis, then at the Air Force major. "They're not dropping if the team is still in there!"

Ellis raised his hand as if quieting a child. "Of course, Ed. There will be no drop if your men are in danger, but we should think positively and let the mission stand as is."

Shane stood up without taking his eyes from the colonel. "Okay, but they don't drop unless I say."

Ellis forced a smile and spoke softly. "It's your ball game."

Russian moved slowly, stopping every few minutes to listen and "feel" out what lay ahead. The rocky trail they followed was a killer. It ran along the top rim of the mountains. To the left was an almost sheer vertical drop to the river far below. To the right the land sloped moderately to the Stadium valley. Towering pines and mahoganies interspersed with magnificent teaks destroyed all undergrowth under the thick canopy. There was no place to take cover to let an enemy patrol pass. Russian would have to see them first and pray it was only one or two men. He could kill them quiedy with the silenced British Sterling. If there were more, there would be a fight-a fight they couldn't win. And, of course, if he or the team was seen first, they'd die.

Russian wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and grasped the weapon again. On the trail up ahead was a group of large boulders. They would make good cover for an NVA trail watcher or sentry.

Russian whispered to Toan to stay down and motioned Wade and Rose to cover him. The two men took up firing positions as Russian crept forward cautiously to check out the danger.

Russian hunched over his submachine gun and swung it along his arc of vision. The closer he came to the boulders the more apprehensive he became. The rocks were waist-high and constituted a natural defensive position because of the way they formed a partial circle with plenty of firing positions. Russian sneaked around the rocks, anticipating a sleeping soldier on the other side, but there was none. He took a deep breath and began to raise his arm to wave the others up. A noise froze his arm in mid-flight. His feeling of relief from a second before was blocked out by a sudden cold jab of fear. The noise was distant, but it was unmistakably man-made, and it told him they were in trouble.

Russian looked back at the team. They had heard the noise, too, and were facing down the slope with weapons readied.

Toan sat on the trail crying silendy. The sound below him, that of a man chopping wood, meant the lowlanders were still in his valley. A man didn't chop wood unless he felt safe, and he wouldn't feel safe unless there were many others of his kind nearby. The old man got up slowly and moved closer to Russian. He pointed down the slope and whispered, "The hunter's hut and spirit house rest below a stone ledge three hundred paces down."

Gibson directed the team into the protection of the rocks as Russian told him what Toan had said. The lieutenant knelt down. "Wade, you and Russian will go with me. We'll sneak down and check out the huts. Thumper, you organize a defensive position here. We'll be back in thirty minutes. If we're not back in that time wait five more minutes and head back to the cave. Questions?"

No one spoke.

Gibson smiled. "Okay, that's it, let's see what we got."

The three men took off their packs and began crawling down the slope.

Sergeant Selando sighed inwardly with relief and thanked God and every saint he could remember as the NVA soldiers left their positions and joined a large gathering a hundred meters away for what looked like a class of some sort.

Selando led the team as they cautiously crawled out of the thicket into the streambed and crept down die bank to escape. In ten minutes they had only traveled one hundred meters, but had reached the end of the camp. Every painstaking foot was another foot closer to survival. Safety was only a few more hundred meters away.

Selando breathed easier but couldn't chance getting to his feet to make better time. Their low profile in the shallow water was barely noticeable. He crawled on, praying for strength, praying that no sentries were posted by the creek.

Fifteen minutes later he raised his exhausted body from the water and fell on a carpet of moss. He had no more strength. His muscles seemed like spongy rubber. The others joined him on the bank, trying not to wheeze or throw up. The radio operator held out the handset to his team leader with the last of his energy. Selando dragged the handset over his heaving chest and pushed the side bar.

Lieutenant Foley sat in the backseat of the small plane, eating C ration pound cake. The earphones crackled and the whispering voice of Selando ran through his earphones. Foley nearly choked on the half-eaten cake.

"Three Alfa, this is One-three. We're out. Over."