Yesterday is Tomorrow

[Robbie C.]

A blast from the past, if you will. Two Task Force people and a Company man we know only by his first name. Or is that all we know?

 

Heat rose in shimmering waves from the hard-baked surface of what had once been rice fields. Most of the villagers had been moved out months ago, or killed by one side or the other if they tried to return to their huts and paddies. Nothing lived in the Arizona Territory these days.

Randy Mather shifted an inch in the shallow hide they'd scraped out in the early hours, before dawn tinted the edges of the sky blood red. Shattered bamboo provided top cover and a modicum of shade, but he could still feel the sweat streaming down the hollow of his spine. One canteen was already empty, and they had about seven hours of daylight left. It was going to be close. Raising the binoculars, he scanned the far edge of the field. He knew from past experience a narrow trail snaked along just inside the foliage, one used by NVA scouts to make their way to positions where they could watch Marine units leaving their small combat base for patrols. Narrowing his eyes, he spoke without moving his head. “Still nothing.”

“No shit.” Dave Blair's voice didn't carry more than three feet. “Gooks are too damned smart to be out in the sun. Only us crazy Jarheads do that.”

“Yeah, but battalion wanted a look-see. And when the captain barks...”

“The LT shits his pants and sends us out.” Dave's nod was something Randy felt without seeing. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But just once...”

“Hang on. I got movement.” Randy focused on the far edge of the trail, where it left the undergrowth and started paralleling the far field dyke. “Your ten o'clock. Five hundred yards out. Just past the third grove on the range card.”

“Got it.” Dave shifted less than an inch, his Remington M700 moving like an extension of his eyes and mind. “I see two targets. About six yards between them.”

“Yep. Two of 'em. The second one just broke cover.” Randy zoomed in. “Looks like two NVA regulars. Khaki uniforms, web gear, both with SKS carbines. No packs. Scouts if I had to bet on it.”

“Roger that. We gonna take 'em?”

“They're armed and in a free fire zone. Be my guest.”

There was a faint click as Dave thumbed off the Remington's safety. “Range me. Four seventy-five on the one in back, Five ten on the one in front.”

“Roger that. You got 'em.” Randy kept his binoculars trained on the two distant men, bopping along like they didn't have a care in the world. Welcome to our AO, fuckers he thought, feeling Dave settling into the shot. They'd been shooting together since they were ten years old, so there were no surprises.

The Remington boomed, and the rear scout doubled over like a folded sheet of paper. His companion looked back, and Randy could imagine the horror and realization blooming on his face just before the rifle spoke again and his head vanished in a red and gray spray. Beside him he heard Dave's monotone. “Hit. Hit.”

“Confirm. One center mass and one head.” Randy kept his glasses up, sweeping the treeline for any movement or sunlight glinting off metal that shouldn't be there. “You wanna go check the bodies?”

“Not really, but the LT will bitch if we don't bring him something.” Dave shrugged, chambering a fresh round in the M700 and gathering up his two spent casings. “You reckon the field's clear?”

“No grunts been out this way for a few weeks, so I'd say it likely is. But you never know in this neck of the woods. We'll give it a few just in case they got friends close by, though.”

“Roger that.” Dave settled back behind the rifle. “Wake me up when it's time to move.”

Even though it had been under an hour, the bodies were starting to bloat and stink under the unrelenting sun. Flies buzzed listlessly in the heat, not willing to exert themselves any more than they had to. Randy looked down and shrugged. “I guess we take him the rifles? They ain't got much else on 'em.”

Dave looked up from checking the pockets of the lead scout. “Got a letter on this one. The tail-end Chuck had some kind of sketch map and paper and pencils.” He wrinkled his nose. “Good enough for me. Let's get the hell out of here before these dudes get any worse.”

Randy nodded, then reached into a baggy fatigue pocket, slinging his M-14 over his shoulder. “Hang on. Gonna leave them a little something to remember us by.”

“Ain't there something against rigging dead bodies?”

“Hell. They do it. And technically I ain't rigging the body. Just tying the fishing line to his wrist.” Randy chuckled. “See? The frag's all the way over here.”

“Two whole feet. But it ain't under the body so I guess Gunny can't complain. Now let's git. We wasted enough time in the damned open.”

They were a klick away from the ambush site when Randy called for their extraction. “Highline, any Highline. This is Longbow 2-5. We need a lift from LZ Arizona Five. Over”

Static filled his ear and then a voice rich with fake Texas echoed out. “Roger that, Longbow. Highline 34 is inbound. Five minutes out, I'd say. Over.”

“Copy that. Five mikes. Longbow 2-5 out.”

Dave rolled his eyes, his boonie hat pulled down low to provide an illusion of shade. “Let me guess. Another of those Texans by way of New Jersey.”

“Something like that. I swear they give those boys some kind of voice transplant when they send them to rotorhead school. Sounded like maybe a captain, though, so he ain't gonna be too full of himself.” Randy shook his head, looking out toward the LZ; another baked paddy in a sea of heat and death.

Six minutes later their ride, an olive drab H-34, dropped from the sky like a brick and did a quick turn over the LZ. “Longbow, pop a smokie, would you?”

“Roger.” Randy pulled out a smoke grenade, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the middle of the dry paddy.

“I've got Lucky Lime,” the pilot announced as green smoke billowed from the top of the grenade, rising and swirling away as the rotor wash caught it.

“You got it, Highline. Two Marines inbound.”

The helicopter flared and settled down on its landing gear. Unlike the Army's Hueys, the H-34 actually had tires. It was older, bigger, and clunkier than the Huey, but it could also carry more weight and take more ground fire. Randy and Dave scrambled through the single door on the right side of the aircraft and then the pilot hauled back on the collective, sending the bird shooting into the air like it had been fired from a giant slingshot. A quick bank left and they were heading back to An Hoa.

 

Lieutenant Haskins looked at the bloody SKS carbines and the packet of papers. “You say there were two of them?”

Randy nodded. “That's right, LT. They were movin' down that little red ball just north of the dried up rice paddy outside An Hiep 3. No packs, and they looked fresh and clean.”

Dave nodded. “Like they'd just come out of a base camp. We watched for a good hour before we went down to check 'em over. Nothing else moved out there, sir.”

Haskins nodded. “Get those sniper reports filled out an' back to me within the hour. S-2 will want to see 'em.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Randy whipped off a quick salute and gathered up the mimeographed forms. “I'll do 'em since I'm not sure Dave can actually write.”

“Screw you. At least I can hit what I aim at. Unlike your sorry ass.”

The hootch they shared with the rest of the scout-sniper teams in the Fifth Marine Regiment did little more than provide fleeting shade from the sun. It did nothing to cut the heat lying like a wet wool blanket over the combat base. If anything the tin roof amplified the heat, baking your brain worse than a helmet in the noon sun. Randy dropped his gear just inside the door, the loaded rucksack making a satisfying thud as it hit the pallet floor. “I don't know about you,” he said to no one in particular, “but I'm gonna hit the chow hall and get some coffee an' whatever shit they're trying to pass off as food before I fill those damned forms out.”

Dave gave a dry chuckle in response. “I'm gonna clean ol' reliable here first. Damn humidity starts rust as soon as you look at her.” He looked around the empty hootch. “Where you figure the rest of the boys are?”

“The range or out like we were. Platoon's spread thin these days. The Arizona's a busy place, an' those Stingray patrols need sniper support along with the grunts.”

“Yeah. Let me know if the pogues in the chow hall actually managed to make something edible.”

Each step raised puffs of dust as Randy crossed the road to get from the hootches to the larger version that served as the chow hall. A cloud of dark smoke showed where someone was burning the shitters, either a local an enterprising Marine had hired or some dumb grunt on punishment detail. IN a combat zone it was the little things that mattered, and Randy was glad the breeze pushed the noxious cloud toward the big runway and not in his direction.

It was too early for evening chow, but there was the thick sludge that passed for coffee and packs of cheese and crackers from C-ration cases someone had left out for passing Marines to snack on. Somehow the pogues hadn't run off with them all, and Randy stuffed a few into his pockets for both himself and Dave before helping himself to a cup of coffee while he filled out the sniper report forms before ambling back across the combat base. He figured if he kept moving he'd avoid the attention of NCOs looking for warm bodies for some detail or another.

Back in the hootch he tossed Dave some cheese and crackers and set about cleaning the M-14 he carried in case the team ran into trouble. More reliable than the new M-16s, it also used the same ammunition as Dave's Remington, making resupply a bit easier. He hadn't fired the weapon, but it had collected enough dust on the mission to warrant a thorough cleaning. That and no staff NCO was going to bother a Marine tending to his rifle.

Dave nodded his thanks. “Not set up yet, are they?”

“Naw. An' it didn't look promising to wait. Late enough in the day there's bound to be at least one sergeant prowlin' around looking for bodies for some shit detail or another.”

“Just another day in the Crotch, ol' buddy.” Dave turned back to his rifle, rubbing another coat of oil into the wood stock. “Just don't forget the LT's forms or we'll be burnin' shit tomorrow.”

“Did that while I was drinking that old motor oil they pass off as coffee.”

“You know the Crotch, Randy. Never toss out something you can reuse.”

“You got that right. Anyhow, soon's I'm done here we can drop those forms with the LT and hit the chow hall. It ain't much, but it's usually better than C-rats.”

Morning's rising heat found them in the operations hootch, standing in front of a large-scale map of the battalion's area of operations. Both men had cups of coffee, more from habit than any need for warmth. The lieutenant had has own, and looked at the map with an intense stare. “Those scouts you zapped yesterday were definitely heading our way,” he announced after taking a sip of his own coffee. “That map they had confirms it. S-2 also got a quick translation on some of their notes.”

“Anything good, LT?”

“Depends on your point of view, I guess.” Haskins gave a thin smile. “Those two were from a sapper company. 95B or some such. Anyhow, they were supposed to look over the outer defenses of the combat base and report back. There might have been more teams sent out, too. Division's got Sparrowhawk patrols out now, screening lines of approach.”

“But they can't cover everything, right LT?” Randy looked at the map, noting the sparse spread of the dots he assumed where the small recon patrols.

“You got it, corporal. So we've got to send scout-sniper teams out to cover the gaps. Watch the trails we know about, see who's moving where, and take out high-value targets of opportunity.”

“Let me guess, sir.” Dave's voice was bitter. “They kick us out of a bird two or three klicks from the target zone and we get to hump it in.”

“I hear you Montana boys are supposed to be good in the woods, corporal.”

“If these were actually woods. Sir. But it's rank-ass elephant grass, bamboo, and scrub jungle hotter than hell. I'll bet you couldn't sell this shit to a drunk Texan, and those assholes'll buy just about anything.”

Randy bit his lip. Haskins was from some town around Austin, but he didn't know Dave knew that. Some days it was a mystery to him how his partner managed to keep his stripes. Still, he spoke fast to avoid any repercussions. “We'd better go draw ammo and rations, sir. How long should we plan to be out?”

“No more than a couple of days. Regiment wants to sweep the area with at least a company, but they need time to wind up another operation.” Haskins kept his narrowed eyes pinned on Dave, and Randy could tell he was trying to decide if the sniper knew he was from Texas or not. Then he dropped the bombshell. “But you two don't have to worry about that. You'll still need the two days of rations, but you aren't going into the Arizona.”

Randy and Dave looked at each other. “Then where the hell are we goin', sir?” Randy found his voice first.

“Wherever that beat to shit H-34 out on the strip takes you, I guess. We got a tasking from Regiment this morning for a pair of scout-snipers for some special duty or another.”

“And we got the short straw.”

“No, Corporal Blair. They said to send the best team we had in the platoon.” Haskins looked at his watch. “I don't think that Vietnamese pilot is too keen on stickin' around on the runway, so you'd best get moving.” He turned to the map, and then looked back. “Good luck.”

“Now why the hell did he say that?” They were heading toward the supply hootch when Dave found his voice again.

“Who the hell knows? All I know is when you're getting on an unmarked bird flown by a Vietnamese pilot shit just got serious. And spooky.”

They drew their rations and ammo in relative silence, loading their rucksacks with only the essentials. Randy could feel the mission, whatever it was, accelerating around them. And he didn't like it. Not one damned bit of it. But corporals of Marines just grinned and said 'sir, aye aye, sir' or they ended up privates of Marines burning shitters until the Second Coming if they were lucky. Even Dave held his tongue, something of a minor miracle on its own.

They walked through the rising heat and dust to the runway and saw Haskins hadn't been kidding. An old H-34, devoid of markings and looking like it was held together with bailing wire and assorted metal and tape patches, sat in one of the helicopter revetments. Up in his cockpit, the pilot looked them over with a listless stare. He was Vietnamese, wearing what looked to be a tight-tailored flight suit made of tiger stripe material. The crewchief manning what looked to be a World War II surplus .30 caliber machine gun gave them the same disinterested stare. There was one other man in the bird. American, he wore plain green jungle fatigues with no insignia of any kind. His web gear was a mix of U.S. and North Vietnamese, and in his left hand he carried one of the stubby CAR-15s starting to come into service. His, though, was spotlessly clean and looked well-used. He smiled, but didn't give his name. “You the shooters? Climb in. Don't mind the hydraulic fluid. Bastard leaks like a sieve. We got a bit of a flight.”

Dave's look said 'what the hell' as clear as a shout, but he shrugged and climbed in. Randy followed, and the second his boots left the PSP runway surface the Vietnamese pilot cranked the bird. Seconds later they were in the air, heading roughly south and west. Away from the Arizona. Somehow Randy wasn't reassured. Looking at the man sitting next to them, he had a feeling where they were going was much worse.

Below them the jungle slipped by a like a green sea glimpsed between floating clouds. The air was cool and clean at higher altitude, and the two Marines leaned back to enjoy the flight. It was too loud in the cabin to talk, and their companions didn't look to be wordy on the best days. Randy wasn't even sure if the gunner spoke more than a few words of English. The man with the CAR-15 almost looked to be asleep, taking advantage of the cool and quiet to catch up on sleep missed in the field if Randy was any judge. And he wasn't one to disturb another's slumbers. Unless it was Dave. Then all bets were off.

When the chopper started its descent it was like someone kicked the bottom out of the world. One minute they were flying level and the next the bird kicked sideways and went into a descending spiral calculated to throw off any observant NVA with heavy-caliber weapons. And shake up the passengers in the process. Randy took a tighter grip on his M-14, guessing from the gunner's grin the pilot was aiming for the latter goal. Dave just shrugged and settled into a better position, and Randy noticed a quick gleam of approval in the eyes of the only other American passenger.

Dirt and debris flew through the air as the pilot pulled pitch at the last moment and brought the H-34 in for a perfect landing in a wide, sandbagged revetment in the middle of what looked to be one of the many Special Forces camps dotting South Vietnam's border with Laos and Cambodia. What was different was a fenced-off compound within the camp near their revetment. The lone entrance was guarded by stocky men who looked at least part Chinese, and Dave gave a low whistle. “Nungs. Someone's serious around here.”

“We try.” The other passenger spoke for the first time since they'd left An Hoa. “If you gents will come with me.” He waved toward the compound. “Got a briefing for you.”

The two guards stood close by the compound gate, only just taking the word of their companion to let the two snipers through. A cluster of four hootches hunkered inside the fence, one oversized and the others looking like sleeping quarters and possibly an armory of some kind. Staging area and not the actual base for these guys, whoever they areRandy thought as he walked.

“Yeah, this is a forward staging area.” He chuckled. “Saw it in your eyes. Call me Topper.”

“I'm Randy. He's Dave.”

“Cool.” Topper looked around. “You'll get more of this in the actual briefing, but as far as anyone's concerned you ain't here. Neither are we, for that matter. This is just another ol' sleepy A-Camp on the Laotian border waiting to get overrun when the NVA get tired of looking at it. We run ops outa here now and again, jumping into Laos to have a peek at Uncle Ho's little Trail. But this.” He shook his head. “This one's different.” He stepped to the door of the larger hootch. “Welcome to Never-Never Land.”

Inside it was hot and dark. The gaps between the siding and the roof that passed for windows were covered, and only a single weak bulb burned overhead. A larger board Randy assumed held a map was covered with a poncho on the far wall, and two men stood in front of it. One looked Regular Army, with sharp jungle fatigues and a green beret tucked into his jacket pocket. The other man wore a fatigue jacket with the sleeves cut off, turning it into a vest. He was dark where the other man was light, and could at a distance be mistaken for a tall Vietnamese until you saw the Hispanic cheekbones and nose. His long dark hair was gathered in the back into a tight ponytail. But what struck Randy the most were his eyes. They almost burned through you with a focused intensity he'd never seen before.

Topper waved them to chairs. “Dave and Randy,” he announced. “Over from An Hoa.”

The sharp Green Beret spoke first. “I'll need you to sign these confidentiality agreements, gents. Short version is you don't talk about what you do here or old Uncle will kick you in the balls. Hard.” He waited and took the forms back. “Thank you. You've met Topper here. His RT will be accompanying you in. RT Sidewinder is one of the best in CCN, so you'll have top tour guides for your little trip into Uncle Ho's backyard.”

The scary man looked up. “These men deserve respect, captain. Sit down.” The Green Beret sat like he'd been hit in the balls with a baseball bat. “This mission is highly classified.” The man's voice was a dry whisper. No trace of accent, and not a word wasted. “You are working with MACV/SOG. Studies and Observation Group. They're supporting my mission.” He looked at Dave and Randy, his eyes burning like he was committing their faces to memory. “Who I am doesn't matter. I work for no one. My job is to help RT Sidewinder get you into position. Your job is to complete the mission.”

Dave shook his head. “Who are we shooting and where's it happening?”

The captain started to speak when the scary man raised a finger. “To the point. Good.” He walked over with fluid steps and pulled the poncho from the wall. “The target is twenty klicks inside Laos. We have solid intel he'll be in this village” - he pointed to a spot on the map - “thirty-six hours from now.” Turning back to the table, he opened an unmarked manila folder and pulled out pictures. “That's him. His name is not important. He'll be traveling with a small escort. No more than five or six men.”

Randy looked at the picture, seeing a man who looked more Chinese than Vietnamese, with a thin, scraggly mustache and narrow, untrusting eyes. He shot a look at Dave, hoping his partner wouldn't ask any questions. But he'd known Dave for going on fifteen years and knew the odds of that were about the same as finding an ice-cold Coke in the middle of the Arizona Territory.

Dave didn't disappoint. He looked at the picture and then at the man at the head of the table. “He some kind of Chinese advisor? Speaks to how much other cover he'll have.”

Randy could tell the spook wasn't used to people asking questions in his briefings, but he could also see a glint of humor in those dark eyes. “No. He's a heroin smuggler.”

“Well, hot damn. Ain't shot one of those yet. Deal me in.” Then Dave's voice turned serious. “That means he ain't gonna have a bunch of pissed-off NVA close to hand when his ticket gets punched, right?”

The man nodded. “They're in the area, though.”

Topper nodded. “That's a fairly hot area, but it's also a bit away from the boxes we usually run recon in. NVA use that area as a bit of a rest camp. It'll buy us some time.”

“Not much, though.” The dark man took control of the briefing again, using the power of his whisper and those eyes.

Randy looked at the map and back down at the picture. It seemed like a lot of trouble for one man, especially one that wasn't a colonel or general. But he also knew there was a whole other side to the war they never saw up close to the DMZ or down in the Arizona, and now he was getting a peek behind that curtain. He guessed Topper had seen it many times before, because the man didn't even blink when the target was mentioned. Just looked at the map figuring lines of approach and ways to get to an LZ once the party started.

Topper raised his hand a fraction of an inch. “How much of my team do I get to take, Martin?”

“Less than half. I'd take just the Americans. Your Yards are good, but we can't afford any language barrier.”

So Mister Mystery has a name. Randy nodded. “Just tell us what we need to do.”

Topper looked at Martin, who nodded. “I'll run you through our ready reaction drills. And I think I got something for you to up that M-14's firepower a bit.” He looked at Dave. “Can't do anything for the bolt gun, though.” He looked up. “You coming with us, Martin?”

“Yes.” That one word packed more intensity than Randy had ever heard in so short a space.

“Then you'll get a CAR. Let's get to the range and get stuff shot in.” He turned to the two Marines. “We fire off our entire basic load of ammo before going out. Helps us check that each magazine's in good working order. That and live-fire drills are the best way to make sure you're on your game. We'll walk through a couple first since this is new to you both.” He gave their web gear an appraising glance. “And get you some new gear, too. You won't need the radio, but you'll need to carry more ammo than you're used to.”

The armory was enough to render even Dave speechless. Any weapon imaginable seemed to be hanging from the wall or stacked in one of the racks lining the sides of the converted hootch. Topper nodded to the grizzled sergeant with a limp behind the counter and said, “Give me one of those E2s, would ya?” While he waited for the man to limp back he turned to Randy. “He used to run RT Sidewinder until the NVA gave him that limp. Rule in SOG is if you don't want to run any more, you get a rear job. That way the guys back here know exactly what we need.” He shook his head. “Plus running recon is a damned tough business. There's no shame in saying you've had enough. Better that than losing your shit in Laos and getting your team killed.”

Randy just nodded, watching the skinny man limp back up with another M-14, except this one had a pistol grip stock. He handed it across the table. “E-2 model,” he said with a voice packed with Texas twang. “She'll go full auto. Load the first mag with tracers and Charlie will think he ran into a whole squad of M-60s.”

After a stop at the supply hootch to get web belts adorned with extra canteen covers, Topper headed for the range. Each man lugged cans of ammo and empty magazines. They spent the rest of the afternoon running through SOG's battle-honed ready reaction drills. Topper would yell 'contact' and whoever was on point would empty an entire magazine of tracer rounds in the indicated direction while the rest of the team split in half, one taking a step to the left, the other to the right. When he fired dry, the point man turned and ran down the center of the open column while the next man in line fired off another magazine of tracers and repeated the drill. Since Dave's weapon wasn't capable of rapid fire, Topper had him throwing a white phosphorus or smoke grenade in the direct of contact.

To Randy's amazement, Martin took part in each drill. Sometimes on point, other times further back in the marching order. The man's movements were scary smooth, and Randy wondered yet again at his background. But he wasn't the kind of man you asked questions. Unless you were Dave. But Dave was too preoccupied by the weapons he was seeing. Topper had his modified CAR, as did his RTO, who was called 1-2 by the SOG men. But what really captivated Dave was the weapon favored by the second-in-command, called 1-1. He carried a Soviet RPD light machine gun that had been cut down and the drum capacity increased just a bit. Not much bigger than a normal M-16, the shorty RPD could put out a wall of lead and seemed easy to control.

Once Topper was satisfied the makeshift team wouldn't shoot each other while breaking contact, they got down to the serious business of launch preparations. Maps were studied, all available reconnaissance reports of the area reviewed, and intelligence combed for clues. The target area folders impressed Randy, containing all available information about whatever target box the team was operating in.

 

Martin stood toward the back of the operations hootch, not saying anything as the men went through the maps and reports. He'd called in a few favors to get this operation launched, and from the looks of the Marines at least one of the favors hadn't been wasted. He'd heard good things about their snipers from other case officers working the DMZ, and so far nothing seemed to have been exaggerated.

He wasn't concerned about the rest. He'd worked with RT Sidewinder before, both with the full team and the Americans alone. The 1-2, a kid called Crow, wasn't very confident in the bush, but he was good enough with the radio that Topper kept him on the team. Silver was the one with the cut-down RPD, and he was masterful in the woods. It was common knowledge he'd been offered an RT of his own but turned it down to keep running with Topper. It was only a matter of time before command broke them up, but for now they made a great team.

Looking at the map, Martin tried to keep his own hate buried deep inside where it wouldn't cloud his judgement. But it was hard. Their target was a high-level smuggler and fixer working close to a corrupt Laotian general with strong Company ties and a guardian angel or six. Martin couldn't touch him, but he could blow a hole or two in his network. And the target was also playing both sides, moving goods and collecting intelligence for the North Vietnamese. Good enough to provide cover when his bosses found out just who he'd hit.

Shifting, he looked again at the two Marines. He felt guilty in a way, pulling them from their straightforward war in I Corps and dropping them in the middle of the shit along the border of South Vietnam and Laos. Dragging them from the light of day into the Twilight Zone. But SOG didn't train its own snipers, and he needed the best for this mission. Men who could make a headshot from eight hundred yards every time. They'd only get one shot at this bastard before he disappeared into the woodwork again. He wasn't going to risk it on some kid up from the Delta used to shooting farmers.

Martin shook his head, feeling the irony. He'd fled Cuba, sent away by his parents before Castro took over. From there he'd drifted into the civil rights movement in Miami, only to be talent-spotted by a Company recruiter who promised him a way to make sure others didn't suffer like his family had. He'd seen the lie well before he realized it, but by then he was in Laos and the upper part of South Vietnam, doing his bit to stop the drug trade and running head-on into case officers working out of Laos who were using that same trade to raise funds for God knows what. He knew what they claimed in their reports, but didn't believe most of it. Soon enough he figured they'd rotate him south to the Delta and Project Phoenix. He'd almost worn out his welcome in Laos.

He tuned back in when Topper started spelling out the rough plan. “We'll go in to one of these LZs. I've got a few marked just in case, but this one here's my first choice. After that we hump into the target area, execute the mission, and beat feet for one of these PZs. Again, got more than one and we can switch on the fly. Air support's lookin' good. Got some of those new Cobras and a few Marine Huey gunships, and the Air Force is gonna have its usual flying circus in the air. Covey will deal with most of that, though. The goal is to be on the ground for no more than twenty-four hours.”

Silver grunted. “So we ain't snoopin'. Just poopin'.”

“Damned straight. Means the NVA won't have much time to react to us. RT Habu is goin' in a bit before us, but to the south. Lots of birds in the air and all that to distract Charlie.”

“If they get hit there goes our support.”

“Not the extraction birds. Those are coming in from other places.”

Silver squinted at Martin. “Do tell.”

“You could always walk.” Martin held his gaze until the stocky man looked away. Silver was good, but he also had an attitude that needed adjusting sometimes.

Topper turned. “Anything we need to know about this guy that ain't in the folder?”

“He's a heroin smuggler. The men with him are his personal escort. Laotian tribesmen. Mercenaries, but good ones. He's meeting an NVA courier. The courier moves alone, so as not to draw attention. We think he's picking up a bribe from the target. Another reason he'd move alone.” Martin wasn't sure the NVA officer was moving alone, but every indication the Company had said he was. He turned back to the map. “Launch is at 0600 tomorrow morning.”

 

Dave waited until they were beside their assigned bunks in the visitors' hootch before saying anything. “I got them damn spiders, Randy.”

“Not you and your damned spiders again.”

“No, man, really. They're dancin' on my spine.”

“Well no shit. We're going into Laos with like four other guys. Shit better be dancin' at news like that.” Shaking his head, Randy tried to think of it as just another mission. No more dangerous than going out as a two-man team in the Arizona. Tried and failed. Laos was NVA central, especially close on the border. But after seven months in-country he also knew fixating on it wasn't going to change a damned thing. Plus the guys they were going out with were scary good.

“Naw, it ain't that. It's more about once we get on the ground and in the target zone.” Dave shook his head. “I can't explain it. I just know how it feels.”

Randy leaned across the space between the bunks. “You figure this mission's official?”

“Official enough to get us yanked out of the Arizona.” Dave shook his head. “After that, I can't say. That Martin guy is one serious son of a bitch, though. Seems like he's callin' the shots. No question.”

Randy nodded, scratching his ear just below his close-cropped dark hair. “I know one or two of the teams in the platoon have worked with SOG before. Mostly in-country, though. But that Martin smells of CIA spook.”

“Yeah. The scary kind, not the ones in the bad-fitting suits you see in Da Nang now and again. And that shit always makes me nervous.”

“Yeah, but it is what it is. Eat the apple and fuck the Corps, except we're with Army guys.”

The door to the hootch opened with a bang and Topper came in. “Sorry about the launch delay, guys. We'd hoped to go today, but we needed to run the drills and all that shit. There's food over in the team hut if you want some, and then I'd rack out if I was you. Once we cross the wire we won't be sleepin' much.”

Randy didn't sleep much that night, and he doubted if Dave did, either. Lying there in the dark, listening to the thud of outgoing artillery from one of the three guns inside the camp perimeter, he kept seeing the map float in front of his eyes. He'd seen Laos from a distance. Most Marines had. It was a place of mystery, rumored to be thick with NVA of every sort. And a land of magic, where roads bombed to hell by the Air Force were rebuilt overnight or simply cut through new jungle routes. A place Americans weren't supposed to be.

Yet the men he'd met today seemed to view it as just another walk in the woods. They had the same healthy caution he held for the Arizona, but aside from that they were confident. The kind of confidence that came from experience and skill, not the bottom of a cheap whiskey bottle. Good men to be in the woods with, he decided just before he finally willed himself to sleep. Especially the bad woods of Laos.

 

Martin chose to sleep outside the isolation compound, in one of the Montagnard huts inside the A-camp's barbed wire and minefields. The family looked at him as though he'd lost his mind, but a few words in his fluent Vietnamese with the hut elder assured him a quiet night.

Lying back on his reed sleeping mat, Martin thought back to the meeting in Thailand. He'd been there, along with another case officer on loan from the Saigon station. Trying to coordinate operations with the Vientiane Station on what was supposed to be neutral ground. Martin knew better. Both the Laos and Thailand stations were up to their necks in the opium and heroin being smuggled out of the Golden Triangle. Or parts of them were. He had no doubt there were honest, efficient case officers in both stations. But never enough to offset the efforts of men like the fat bastard sweating across the table from him.

Menton sighed. “I ain't going over this again. He's not a target. End of story.”

“We have pictures of him meeting with high-ranking NVA officers.” Martin told the story again, knowing it would change nothing. “Handing them large sums of money. American money. He's helping to fund their war effort in Laos. How is he not a target?”

“Because we say so. He's an asset.”

“Gathering what?” The officer with Martin snorted. “Souvenir carved elephants? I haven't seen any product that can be attributed to this man.”

“Except for ODs in Da Nang. It's moving south, too.” Martin kept going, knowing it was wasted effort but wanting to get the words out there. “All thanks to this man you claim is an asset.”

Menton stood up, moving faster than his bulk suggested. “We're done here. He's not a target. Period. Check with your chief of station. He'll tell you the same thing.”

“Actually he didn't.” The other officer smiled. “He said to tell you if the bastard ever crosses into South Vietnam he's a dead man.”

Menton smiled. “Good thing he isn't doing that, then.”

But he'll be close enough. Martin smiled in the darkness. The chief of station ok'd the operation as soon as the target's location was confirmed. But also told Martin he'd have to transfer him south to the Delta afterwards. 'To make it look like you went off the reservation' the thin, bespectacled career officer said with one of his trademark thin smiles. 'But it will also put you out of their reach if they decide to square things.' Rolling over, he knew he wasn't worried about that. So long as he could put a crimp in the smuggling pipeline he was happy. Sleep slid its dark wings over him soon after.

Morning came with no warning, and soon they were geared up and waiting at the helipad with the rest of RT Sidewinder. Martin stood just to one side, watching the snipers fit themselves in with the Americans of the RT. Off to one side the team's usual Montagnards stood like lost puppies, glad they weren't going but at the same time wishing they were. Complex feelings he understood all too well.

Topper checked his watch. “Birds will be here in five, so I'll make this quick for our strap-hangers. We move slow and quiet. No talking unless it's a damned quiet whisper. We use the noise from the birds to get clear of the LZ, I call back saying we're good, and then it goes quiet. Understood? I'll be on point, and Silver's tail gunner. He covers our tracks best he can. No smoking, no eating, no nothing that could give us away. Don't even fart loud.”

Randy nodded, and even Dave held his tongue. Martin could see the intensity in their eyes, and knew their command had chosen well. Their gear was tied down, they held their weapons with a casual familiarity inspiring confidence, and they were smart enough to be afraid under the masks. He could see it, just as he could see his own deep down inside. It was always there, and he fed it to keep it going. A man without fear was a danger to himself, and more to the people he worked with. Martin held his fear close.

The clatter and thump of rotors filled the air, and another battered H-34 corkscrewed in, followed by four gunships. All were the sleek, new Cobras, stubby wings bristling with rocket pods. Crow nodded his approval, speaking for the first time that morning. “Snakes. Sweet.”

From the open door of the H-34 the door gunner waved. “You come now! We go!” The air crews had been briefed before takeoff, stopping only to pick up their human cargo. Martin knew it wasn't normal procedure, but nothing about this mission was.

The perforated plastic foregrip of his CAR-15 was cool under his fingers as the bird gathered itself and jumped into the sky. Around Martin the other men sat, some looking out and watching the gunships floating into formation while others stared at the metal floor slick with hydraulic fluid. He chose to watch the clouds, ranging from pure white to a murky gray. Floating free above the jungle-clad mountains that at times reminded him of his childhood and a barely-remembered Cuba.

Topper smacked his arm, bringing him back to the present. The 1-0 held up his hands, fingers outstretched. 'Ten minutes' it said as clear as a shout. Nodding, Martin turned his attention to his weapon. Like the others, he had a round in the chamber and the safety on. As soon as the helicopter started its descent, he'd flip the safety off like the others. His unmarked fatigues hung loosely from his thin frame, and his ponytail dangled from under a wide-brimmed boonie hat. With his darker skin he could have gotten away with wearing his fatigue jacket vest, but left it behind like he did at the start of every mission over the fence. It was his way of promising himself he'd be back.

They fell from altitude into the small jungle LZ like a marble dropped from a building. The team left the bird in a controlled rush, following Topper into the treeline and beyond, almost running to make use of the helicopter's noise to mask their own sounds. The bird was up and gone in seconds, streaking off to make a few false insertions before heading back to South Vietnam. The gunships stayed with it, their reassuring thump vanishing into the distance. Soon Topper raised his hand, bringing the team to a halt. He motioned for Crow to come up and whispered into the radio handset. “RT Sidewinder ok.” He handed the handset back to Crow and exchanged a knowing look with Martin. Both men knew the NVA used radio location gear to find teams, and any transmission was a risk.

 

Randy settled into the controlled pace of the team soon enough. They'd take a step, stop, listen, look around, and then maybe take another. Each time checking the jungle floor before planting a foot. The snap of a breaking branch could give the team away if any NVA happened to be in the area. And Randy heard they liked to run to the sound of helicopters.

Still, he had to grin. Between another RT being extracted and their bird making false insertions, the NVA must be having fits trying to figure out what was going on. They'd made good time while the birds masked their movement, and from what he could see Silver had done a fine job masking their backtrail. The M-14E-2 still didn't feel quite right in his hands, but after their range time he was confident he could use it to good effect in any fight. He was even thinking about seeing if he could take the damned thing with him when they were done. Being able to rock 'n' roll would be a huge advantage if he and Dave bumped into more than they could handle back in the Arizona. But for now he watched the jungle around him.

It amazed him how loud the damned place was. Between the birds in the upper canopy and monkeys roaming at will screaming at each other it was like being at a family reunion where half the people were drunk and the other half flat-out didn't like each other. They were moving through rugged country, and Topper did his best to avoid trails. Deadfall choked some open areas, while in others vines and undergrowth competed to fill in sunlit patches created by U.S. airstrikes. Randy had no idea what the target had been, or if there'd even been one, but bomb craters seemed relatively common in the Laotian jungle.

Topper kept them on a course moving roughly west and north if Randy was reading the sun right. From time to time he waved Crow up and made a quick squelch-breaking check-in call. Behind him he could see Dave moving with the loose, easy gait of someone who'd spend a great deal of time in the woods. They both had, hunting and hiking through most of western Montana. They were used to moving slow, taking measured steps. Hunting pronghorn antelope made a man good at that if he wanted to eat. Difference is the speed goats didn't shoot back. Out here, we're the hunted at least half the time. It was an unsettling thought.

He wasn't sure how much ground they'd covered before the sun started casting long shadows through the darkening jungle floor. Topper kept moving, but he seemed to be steering them into the densest undergrowth he could find.

Seeing the look on Randy's face, Crow fell back a bit and whispered close to his ear. “RON.”

Randy nodded. Topper was looking for the spot they'd hole up in for the night. Someplace a wandering NVA out for a midnight stroll wouldn't blunder into just because. He'd been impressed with the man's fieldcraft during the move, and that respect increased when he saw the position Topper picked. It was close on the side of a hill, back in thick brush were no one would wander by accident.

They set up as quiet as they'd moved, Crow showing Dave and Randy how to set their Claymore mines up in front of logs or trees to protect them from the backblast if they had to set the mines off. The men sat in a circle, not quite taking their heavy rucks off, eating cold rice and meat from long plastic tubes Randy heard them call indig rations. Indigenous rations packaged for the Montagnards and Vietnamese. He could tell from his partner's face Dave didn't care for them, but he found them an improvement over cold C-rats. Plus they didn't have a distinctive smell. Topper made a final call to an airplane circling somewhere above and out of sight, and then they settled in for the night.

 

Martin look a late watch, even though he hadn't slept much. He loved the jungle at night, from the sounds animals made moving through the dead leaves and fallen branches on the spongy floor to the stars twinkling through gaps in the overhead canopy. The air was cool compared to the day, and everything seemed fresh.

He did miss his own team, though. Jess, Ti Ti, Gus. Even the Laotian mercenaries, though he didn't trust them as far as Ti Ti could throw them. He smiled in the darkness. Ti Ti was a stocky Nung of indeterminate origins and ferocious disposition who'd been fighting since the French had walked the jungle floors of the region. Jess sometimes joked Ti Ti was some sort of jungle war god incarnate, but Martin never laughed. He wasn't sure if Jess was wrong or not.

He'd learned much from Ti Ti. How to move in the jungle. How to listen to it and wait for it to give up its secrets. He'd also learned a bit about fighting, both with and without weapons. In turn he'd shared what he knew and the two became friends. Or as close to friends as Ti Ti would allow. Sides of him always remained hidden, although he'd actually heard Ti Ti laugh once. They were in one of the Laotian camps and he'd seen Ti Ti talking with an American woman who was shorter than he was. She said something and the stocky Nung threw back his head and laughed in a way Martin never thought he could. He'd never seen the woman before, and never saw her again, but one of the case officers stationed at the camp just shook his head when he asked who she was. “I don't know who that little ninja is,” he replied, looking around quickly before answering. “And you don't want to know, Martin.”

Topper had made good time that day, better than Martin had hoped. They'd reach the target area in plenty of time. The trick now would be to remain undetected until the target arrived. He'd seen pictures of the village before, little more than a few huts scattered along a long-abandoned French experiment in road-building, and talked to teams who'd been in the area. The snipers would have no trouble finding a hide with a clear view. High ground rose on all sides, cupping the huts like an almost-closed hand. Staring at the map, he wondered what the French had been building the road to. It just vanished a few miles further into the highlands, petering out as interest and money dried up and the French made their exit.

He could see the first hint of red on the horizon. It would be time to move soon. Packing his thoughts back into his mental rucksack, Martin took a better grip on his CAR-15 and scanned the jungle around them with his eyes and ears. Even his nose. You could smell the NVA if you tried; sweat and fish sauce carried on the jungle breeze as well as aftershave and soap did from Americans. Tobacco smoke, too. Most NVA smoked in the bush, and when they thought they were in safe areas they laughed and joked more than American soldiers did. Contrary to the myth most of them were as lost in the jungle as their GI opponents.

But there were exceptions. Martin hoped they were far enough west to miss the web of trail watchers and trackers the NVA used to screen the main arteries of the Ho Chi Minh trail from SOG teams. The last thing he wanted was one of their counter-recon teams to pick up RT Sidewinder's trail. If they did, within minutes or hours an entire company or even a battalion would hit the jungle trying to fix and finish the team. Stealth was their friend and their insurance policy. Martin allowed himself a thin smile as the rest of the team started waking with the day. At least his team operated in areas the NVA didn't expect.

They moved out after collecting their Claymores and having a breakfast of cold rations. Topper made his 'good morning' call and started them out at the same measured pace. They kept moving up, keeping away from the low ground Topper knew the NVA would cling to if they were in the area. Martin agreed with the movement, knowing people tended to be lazy and stick with the easiest path even if it was more dangerous. They weren't looking for trails, camps, or NVA relay stations on this mission, either. The point was to avoid all contact with the NVA or Pathet Lao until they made the hit.

Topper approached the small stream from an angle, halting the team and checking it himself before waving them forward. They needed water, but he also knew the NVA or Pathet Lao would be drawn to the clear, cool water just like them. The bottom was rock, and he cautioned each man as he came forward. “Don't stir up anything. They see mud downstream, they'll know people are upstream.”

 

Randy dipped his canteen in the water, nodding at Topper's advice. He'd tracked deer the same way in the rugged country west of Deer Lodge. In fact the stream reminded him of more than a few mountain watercourses he and Dave had drank from or crossed on those hunting trips. He crossed clean, avoiding loose rocks and taking his place on the other side to watch the jungle while Crow and Silver filled their canteens and crossed in their turn.

They moved out again, Crow taking the second position then Dave and Randy with Martin and Silver rounding out the line. Like the day before they moved slowly, a step a minute at best. Moving through the jungle like green-clad ghosts. The heat built under the canopy as the sun climbed in the sky, but they continued to move. Like before they stopped around noon and settled in for an hour or so of rest. Topper had explained it the day before as 'pok time.' NVA movement always stopped during those hours for a meal break and kind of siesta, and anyone moving during that time was easy to spot as hostile. So most RTs took the same break unless they had a compelling mission reason not to. But they always understood the risks of moving during pok time.

Dave leaned in close, his lips not moving as his whisper came out like a long exhale. “This is some shit, ain't it?”

Randy nodded. “We need to try this in the Arizona.” He wanted to say more but understood noise discipline. Still, the thought stuck with him. If they moved like this back there, they could get into positions further out. Be more effective.

They settled into another RON before the sun was down, halting early to stay clear of the target area but close enough to slip in come dawn and set up with time to spare. Martin still seemed confident of his intel, and Randy didn't have anything to challenge the man. Not that he would have. Martin seemed like the kind of man you didn't challenge unless you were sure. He'd taken the radio from Crow once that afternoon, changing frequencies and making a short call. Then he turned and nodded. Indicating the intel was still good and the mission would continue.

After setting up their Claymores, Randy and Dave settled back to grab what sleep they could before their turns on watch came up. Randy looked over at Dave, knowing his partner was going through as many shooting scenarios as he could based on the information they had. Calculating bullet drop. Range. Potential hides. All things a good sniper did before making the shot. Randy tried, but his brain wouldn't settle down. It kept going back to why they were here.

Why hit a drug smuggler? It hadn't made sense during the briefing, and he wasn't sure he could puzzle it out now. If you knew where the guy was going to be, just call in an airstrike and be done with it. If Martin was CIA, Laos was their playground and a gigantic free-fire zone for them. Why send a ground team in, especially one as valuable as RT Sidewinder? Why not use one of the teams Randy was sure the CIA had on hand?

Then it hit him. A message. Martin was sending a message to someone. A very precise, calculated message. And what better way to do it than with the ultimate precision weapon? An airstrike was great for killing many, but there was always a chance it would miss the one you wanted. Dave wouldn't, and if things went clean he'd only kill that one. Randy knew the effect snipers had on inattentive units. He'd seen it more than once, both when Marines took sniper fire and when he and Dave had managed to surprise NVA elements. A single, unexpected shot out of nowhere was disruptive as hell, especially when it took out a commander, a radio operator, or a heavy weapons operator.

Still, he didn't like being part of some spook message game. When they started playing games the wrong people got hurt.

The night passed like the one before, and they were moving before dawn broke through the fog clinging to sides of the Laotian hills. Topper had pulled out his map before they moved, showing them where he was headed and pointing out a couple of possible hides for Dave and Randy. They were all on the west side of the ville to allow for a quick run to the LZ, so they'd have to cross the old French road on their way in.

The remains of the road was almost lost in the jungle, and without the map they might have mistaken it for a game trail. Undergrowth had reclaimed most of the shoulders on both sides, and what remained was a thin snake of dirt running in a curving straight line deeper into the jungle. It looked untouched for years, but Topper halted the team, spreading them out in a line formation before he crossed the road. They followed in his footsteps, Silver bringing up the rear and doing the best he could to remove any trace of their passing.

Once on the other side, Randy took his place and turned his attention back to the jungle. Birds still chattered at each other in the canopy overhead, and he could still hear monkeys shrieking their insults at each other somewhere off to the north. Sound was good. It meant they'd moved without disturbing anything and that it was likely no other humans were on the move close by. You had to worry when the noise stopped. When they started moving again they were climbing, making their way up a low ridgeline.

They were skirting the lower flanks of a gentle ridge when Randy smelled smoke. From the light breeze rattling the big leaves overhead he guessed it must be coming from the ville somewhere below them. He turned to Dave and nodded. We're close. Damned close. And no one's spotted us yet. Even better. Topper raised his chin, sniffing the air, and held up his hand in a closed fist, bringing the team to a halt. He motioned for Crow and whispered into the radio handset. Then he turned, smiling, and waved the snipers up.

“Air's coming on station now,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “They'll be out of earshot but ready if we need them. Planes work the Trail east of here all the time, so they're nothing out of the ordinary.”

Randy nodded. “Smelled the smoke.” He pointed in the general direction of the valley floor.

“Yeah. Just down there.” He pulled his map out of his sweat-soaked fatigue jacket, the paper protected by a clear plastic sleeve. “We'll move this way” - his finger traced a line - “and see what the shooting looks like. We've got time before the target arrives, so we can check a couple of positions if you need to.”

Dave just nodded, his eyes focused on the lower slopes of the ridge. Randy could tell he was already slipping into his shooting space. So he whispered, “Lead on,” for both of them.

Soon he could see a narrow finger of smoke rising in the humid air, pushed crooked by the light breeze pushing through the valley between the ridges. They worked their way around trees and rocks, until the undergrowth opened up and they could see the ville down below. Nothing more than four or five grass-roofed huts on both sides of the fading road, he could see cleared areas where people were trying to grow crops of some kind. Again he wondered what the hell it was doing out here. Some remnant of the road crews the French had pushed into the jungle? An outer listening post for the sections of the Trail closer to the border? Or just tribesmen clinging to the old ways as a war raged around them? He wasn't sure, and didn't know if anyone else knew, either.

Dave touched his arm and nodded. This was it. Returning the nod, Randy caught Topper's eye and signaled to stop. They'd shoot from here. The line of sight was good, and they had the smoke to check the wind. While Dave went about settling in with his Remington, Randy hauled out his binoculars and started glassing the ville. Looking for occupants and checking ranges in the same motion.

He knew Dave would be making a range card, so he concentrated on picking out areas of interest and estimating the range. The cookfire was outside one of the huts on the far side of the path, so he started there and worked his way around. They were, he estimated from the size of the dark doorway into the hut, about six hundred yards out. Give or take. Well within Dave's effective range. It wasn't ideal, but under the circumstances it would have to do.

Looking over, he saw Dave was almost done with the card and compared ranges. They were almost identical, bringing a smile to Randy's face. When that happened it meant Dave was really dialed in and the shooting would be beyond belief. The two men locked eyes, and Randy gave him a solid thumbs up.

He could feel the team settling in around them, back in the shadows where they wouldn't draw any attention. The slope here was sharp, enough to keep random wanderers from venturing up unless they had a specific reason. And this deep in the Laotian backcountry he doubted anyone would have reason. Now it was down to the waiting, a skill he and Dave had perfected through months in the field and he guessed the SOG men had perfected in a harsher school than the Arizona.

The sun inched its way through a painfully blue sky dotted here and there with balls of off-white cotton. From time to time Randy could see people moving down in the ville. Men coming in and out of the huts, going through the motions of working the fields or tending the fire. But he never saw a single woman or child. Alarm bells started sounding in his head, and he saw the same look in Dave's eyes when he tapped him on the shoulder. He sees it, too. This ain't no damned ville in the middle of nowhere. It's some kind of camp. Turning as much as he dared, he looked back to try to find Martin in the deeper shadows of the slope. I wonder if he knew. Kinda doubt it, but you can never trust a spook. They always got seven cards to your five and stack the deck besides.

There was no helping it, though. The cards were on the table and they had to play their hand. Randy wasn't much of a card player, but he'd seen enough of them to understand the idea. Raising his binoculars he glassed the area again. Looking for any movement. And then he saw them.

The jeep was old, dating back to Dien Bien Phu if Randy had to guess. It rattled down the dirt road trailing a cloud of dust in the thick air. Randy imagined he could hear the engine before it slid to a stop, the training dust flowing over it and the men inside like a wave. They emerged waving and coughing, two from the front and another two from the back of the jeep. The two in front were clearly guards; armed with AK-47s they flanked the jeep as soon as they clambered out, covering the huts on both sides of the road. One of the men in back had the same look, while the last man out looked around like he was expecting someone. Through the powerful binoculars Randy got a good look and hissed, “Target.”

“Range me.” Dave's voice was a breath carried on the breeze.

“Six fifty.”

“Roger that. Waiting.”

“Why?”

Dave's answer was simplicity itself. “I want them both.”

Randy could feel the tension in the men behind him, but he blocked it out. Focusing his entire being on the door of the far hut, since that's where the target was looking. More men with AKs came out, flanking the door and coming to a sort of attention. Then a third man came out, shorter than the others and someone Randy hadn't seen while he was watching the ville. His khaki shirt looked clean, and he had the air of an officer about him.

“Two targets. Range me.”

“Still six fifty.” Randy watched as the two men approached each other, the man from the jeep holding out his hand. “Take the shot.”

The boom of the Remington bounced off the far ridge wall and back again, making it impossible from below to determine where the shot had come from. “Hit.” Randy sensed rather than saw Dave eject the spent casing and feed a new round into the chamber. The second shot followed so quickly the men below had only just realized the first man was down. “Hit.”

“Two hits confirmed.” Randy watched through his glasses as the first man's head exploded and the lifeless body fell like a bag of rice dropped from the tailgate of a duce and a half. The second man died the same way. “Both headshots.”

Down below the guards turned, trying to find the location of the shots. Dropping to one knee, the guards of the dead smuggler trained their AKs on the men who'd been tasked with protecting the NVA officer. Faint shouts echoed up, followed by the familiar crack-bark of AKs as the two guard forces started shooting at each other.

Behind them Randy heard a low whisper. “Exfiltrate. While they're busy.”

“Roger that.” He tapped Dave on the shoulder and the two Marines slid into the deeper shadows on the curving side of the ridge. Topper was already moving, picking a slow, steady path through the brush calculated to bring them around the ridge and on a straight run to the pick-up site.

 

Martin tried hard not to smile as the team moved through the jungle. He hadn't expected Dave to take out both targets, but he couldn't say he was annoyed. Far from it. The NVA officer had been deeply involved in heroin smuggling, no matter what that ass Menton might say. Gunfire continued to echo in the distance, but Topper had already called in the bird and they'd be on their way home before the two guard forces realized their error and started looking. Assuming they didn't kill each other off beforehand.

The H-34 that made the pickup was in much better shape than the one that had dropped them off, and the crew were all American and gifted with dark sunglasses and no discernible vocabulary. Martin didn't care. They'd get them back, and that was what mattered. He recognized the pilot as someone on the Saigon station payroll, and sent a silent message of thanks into the distance. After this, he wouldn't trust anything coming out of Laos or Thailand. Still, it had been worth it.

He looked over at the two Marines. He'd remember their faces and names. Good men, with solid skills and the ability to think for themselves. Maybe he'd see them again someday. For now, he'd make sure they got commendations in their records. Classified, of course, but there just the same.

 

Menton grinned as the other man slammed his hand on the table. “Of course it was that self-righteous ass. What does he care if the money's helping us kill Commies? He's set us back months. Maybe years.”

“Don't wet yourself, Jocko. I got a plan.” He leaned forward. “He forgets we know as much about him as he does about us. I figure he's got one, maybe two more missions before his rabbi has him moved back South where we can't get to him. We might not be able to hurt him directly, but we sure as hell can give up that precious team of his.” His fat face split in what was supposed to be a grin. “Let's see how he likes it when his precious team gets hit.”

[Matt5]

Really enjoying this - thankyou 

[mjcmmv]

This was excellent! Great background material here!

[Matt5]

55 minutes ago, mjcmmv said:

This was excellent! Great background material here!

Yes I’m pleased you enjoyed it too.

[Robbie C.]

Glad you two enjoyed it! I thought it might be kind of interesting to explore why Menton might have had it in for Castillo back in Southeast Asia. And I couldn't resist framing it around my two Task Force scout-snipers.

[vicegirl85]

How much do I love the title of this piece?!  It's great and I've enjoyed what I've read so far.  I'm so happy you're delving into Castillo's Southeast Asia experience.  Definitely settling down to read the whole thing later today!

[Robbie C.]

I was going for sort of a '60s song title vibe with it. There's an audio recording floating around the inter webs called "Radio First Termer." It's an actual underground radio broadcast done by an Air Force guy in Vietnam in I want to say 1970 or so. I was aiming for his atmospherics with the title. Good old Dave Rabbit, Radio First Termer, 69 megacycles on your FM dial.

[Kladdagh]

Another masterpiece @Robbie C. ... Many thanks 

[Robbie C.]

43 minutes ago, Kladdagh said:

Another masterpiece @Robbie C. ... Many thanks 

Glad you enjoyed it!

[vicegirl85]

Excellent!  and I could just hear and see Menton in my mind at the end!

 

[Robbie C.]

Follow it up with Wave Rider and let me know what you think...

[vicegirl85]

Yes, that's next on my list!

[Robbie C.]

7 minutes ago, vicegirl85 said:

Yes, that's next on my list!

It's also chronologically next. Well...after the interlude we see in The Savage, at least.