Phantom Leader Part 21

Ten feet short of the small open porch he threw himself at the base of a tree and aimed his rifle at the door. He listened, heard nothing, sprang to his feet and crashed the door, finger on the trigger, ready to spray anything that moved.

The empty main room was furnished with a thin table, cheap rattan chairs, and a wicker sofa. He crashed each door of the other three small rooms in the same way. There was no one in the two bedrooms that contained several sleeping pallets and small dressers topped with thin cloth and female toiletries. The third room, the cooking area, was bare except for a heavy table, a large, tiled sink, and a four-foot-high clay pot full of water. Out the window Wolf saw a small structure that contained the opening to a septic tank. He eased back to the front door and waved for Polter and the others to advance. Rizzo covered Polter and the girl as they ran down the path, then he backed down after them, holding the big M60 with one hand, unwinding the wire with the other.

When he was inside, Wolf fixed the wire to a detonator he took from the bag. "Here." He handed it to Rizzo. "Take this and set up your gun in the doorway. Cover the path."

Polter and the girl sat on the floor, backs against the wall.

Calmer now, after the run, in charge of herself once again, Greta Sturm glared at Wolf. She unslung the sh.e.l.ls and pushed away the RPG she had been carrying. Wolf ignored her and flipped his hand at Polter. "Let's look around."

The small house was made of the Asian equivalent of cinder block. The rear wall of the villa grounds also served as the rear wall of the house. Like the villa, the structure was flat-roofed. In each room Wolf looked at the ceiling. There were no openings to the roof.

"We've got to get to the roof and see about getting over the wall," he said.

"Or blast through from down here," Polter said.

A don't think a Claymore or an RPG round would do it, the wall's too thick. Besides, the noise would give us away, and the backbiast would blow us away." He moved to the kitchen, shoved the table against the back wall, and climbed up. He tapped the white plaster ceiling with his rifle b.u.t.t a few times. "Sounds like wood," he said. "Get the girl in here and we'll start taking it apart." He stepped to the floor, propped his gun in the closest corner, removed his harness, and eased it to the floor. He bent over, pulled his K-Bar knife from the webbing, and climbed back on the table. He inserted the tip of the knife in a small crack and pried. A few chunks of white plaster fell to the floor. He sc.r.a.ped and bared a small section of wood lath. He poked his knife between two slats and stood to one side as a few inches of mortar crumbled and fell out. He began pus.h.i.+ng and moving his knife, forcing out more and more of the crumbling mortar that streamed down on the table and the floor. When he had several feet cleared between laths, he began sawing on a lath at one end. After a moment Polter and Greta Sturm entered the room. His face was flushed and angry.

"She wants to go talk to them," he said angrily.

Wolf stepped down and handed the knife to Polter. He pulled the girl down to sit against the back wall. He took out a faded blue bandanna and wiped the sweat and mortar dust from his face.

"What do you want to talk to them about?" he asked quietly.

"About letting us go," she said.

:,You mean letting you go, don't you?"

'No. I mean us. We are civilians. They-"

"Frdulein Sturm, we are not civilians. I am in the military and I have just killed some of their men. Rizzo and Polter will do the same thing before we are out of here. What makes you think they will have anything to do with us besides a bullet in the back of the head?"

"I have tended their men. They know me. We can go out under a white flag. They would not shoot. I will go in front and explain." She put her hand on Wolf's arm. He shook it off.

"That's sure death. Just relax. We'll be out of here soon as we get over that wall and make contact with the Black Panthers."

"I do not want to go with you." She sat back and folded her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her hands and forearms were dirty and sc.r.a.ped. Her forehead was smudged and damp.

Wolf handed her his bandanna.

"Here, wipe some of the dirt off."

She flicked it back at him. "That has more dirt than I do."

"Why don't you want to go with us?"

"I am a nurse. You do not need me. They do." She nodded in the direction of the NVA. "I go where the wounded are."

Wolf stared at her. "How old are you? How long have you been here?"

She calculated the English words. "I have twenty-six years. I have here at the Hue Mission six months time. We have taken in the wounded Viet Cong. They have grat.i.tude."

"Sure they have grat.i.tude. You give them better medicine and treatment than their own side can give. They get a chance to study the layout of the city and its defenses. You bet they have grat.i.tude."

"I do not know such things. I am not on any side."

"You don't have to be. But if you go out there they will at best kill you, at worst capture you."

"I do not believe you. You are like all the Americans. You think you are better than these people. You think only you have the right to tell people what to do. Why are you here?"

Her gray eyes were filled with contempt.

"We're here," Wolf snarled, "because we didn't stop your great leader Adolf Hitler at Munich or at the Saar-"

She jumped to her feet. "You are a terrible man. I am leaving."

Wolf reached up and caught her wrist. "I won't let you go out there."

She twisted with surprising strength. Wolf bent her arm behind her back and forced her to her knees by the sink. He wrenched her arms around an iron support and tied her hands palms together with his bandanna. She had to lie flat on her stomach. Polter, sc.r.a.ping and sawing, had witnessed the scene. He grinned and winked at Wolf, who glared.

"Just keep sawing," he snapped and went to check on Rizzo. He crawled next to the gunner and looked up the pathway.

"See anything?"

"No, sir. Haven't heard any firing either." His voice was terse, almost hostile. Wolf turned his head to look at the young man.

"Where you from, Rizzo?"

"What difference does it make?" He clenched his jaw.

"Look, Rizzo," Wolf said softly. "I'll overlook your insolence if you'll tell me what's eating at you. We're in a tight spot here and we need everybody backing everybody else.

Now what is your problem?"

Rizzo tightened his jaw. "You shouldn't have made me leave Mister Craig. He was a good man."

Wolf thought for a moment. He remembered yelling at Rizzo, right after the mortar exploded by the helicopter, to get away from the wounded copilot and help him and Lopez destroy the mortar.

"On the roof, when you came to where I was and started shooting, did you see anything below? This time say sir."

"Yes, sir," Rizzo answered reluctantly.

"Did you shoot?"

"Yes, sir."

"Many times, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you think that saved our lives? We took out the very mortar pit that had our range. We would have all died if they had kept on firing."

Rizzo didn't answer. "The nurse went to Mister Craig," Wolf continued.

"His arm was gone.

No tourniquet in the world would have stopped the ma.s.sive bleeding. And he was in full shock. He was as good as dead the instant he was. .h.i.t."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you, Colonel?" Wolf looked closer at Rizzo. He was in his early twenties, stocky and muscular, had clear brown eyes, an intelligent face, and full lips formed into a sneer.

"Yeah, Rizzo, I do." Wolf's voice was full military now, not loud but authoritative and crisp. "And I'll tell you why I do. I have all the answers because I've seen more men wounded in combat than you had in your basic training unit.

You've been flying over the jungle of Vietnam while I've led men far younger than you into those jungles and into tunnels and caves you couldn't imagine in your worst dreams. Men with pride and grit who knew the chances they were taking.

Men like Mister Craig. Men who know the success of the mission depends on each person believing in the other. Men like Joe Lopez who held the rear guard so we could get away.

You start letting this thing fester in you and you'll be worse than useless to us. You shape up or so help me, I'll tie a white flag to you and the girl and boot both your b.u.t.ts out on the street. You do your job now, and I'll give you a chance to punch me out when we get back.

You slack on your job now and I'll wrap this M60 around your head." He stuck his face up next to Rizzo. "Capice? Say sir."

Rizzo glowered. He looked determined. "I understand. I'll be glad to punch you out when we get back. . . sir, " he added with scorn.

Wolf slammed him on the back. "Good man. I knew I could count on you."

He crawled back to the kitchen.

0515 HOURS LOCAL, FRIDAY 2 FEBRUARY 1968.

416TH TACTICAL FIGHTER SQUADRON TAN SON Nhut Air BASE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

The squadron was alive with noise and activity. The pilots were busy checking the flight schedule, their equipment, making maps, discussing tactics. Their blood was racing. All night while in the BOQ they had heard the sounds of fighting coming from Cholon and the Phu Tho racetrack area. Some had slept in the squadron building. They were ready to go dish it out. The Skyspot alert crews staggered in, fuzzy-eyed and haggard. Each flight had been launched three times to beleaguered friendly outposts.

Court and Mac Dieter brought their coffee into Dieter's office. Court pulled deeply on a Lucky.

"Still into those, are you? Thought you quit at SOS,"

Dieter said.

"I did. Got divorced, got to combat, got back on 'em,"

Court answered.

"They'll kill you, you know."

Court pulled out his pack from his sleeve pocket and shook one out. He offered it to Dieter.

"Don't mind if I do. Thanks." Court lit Dieter's cigarette with his Zippo.

Dieter saw the rubber band wound around the lighter.

Why the rubber band?"

"Provides friction. Keeps the lighter from slipping out of my pocket.

Learned it out on patrol with the Special Forces.

Lots of ways to get killed. One of them is to have a s.h.i.+ny lighter slip out of your pocket and make a noise as it falls."

He took another deep inhale.

"What happened with Connert?" Court had left the squadron after the OSI agents had taken Connert away.

"Wow," Dieter said. "There's a nut case. You're lucky to be alive, having him in the backseat. Nothing really to hang on him, though.

Impersonating a pilot isn't all that heavy compared to impersonating an officer. He'll be outprocessed right away, I expect."

"I hope so." Court grinned. "Although I've maybe flown with worse backseaters."

"And maybe one today, is that what you're trying to say?"

, 'Listen, Mac, don't worry about it. I'll check you out in ten minutes. All you do is turn on a few switches and I'll do all the rest.

Then you just sit there with your hands in your lap."

Dieter's eyebrows shot up. "Hands in my lap? Bulls.h.i.+t, hands in my lap. I at least get a takeoff and a couple patterns or you ain't got no backseater and cain't fly. So there. I am the boss around here, you know."

"Okay, all right." Court laughed. "Your logic is compelling. Since you said fly, let's go do it."

"I set us up with Morelli and Jensen. No sense changing a good thing, and you guys are getting used to each other's airplane. Let's go brief."

They took their coffees and met Morelli and Jensen in the map table room.

"Hi, guys," Morelli said. "Same place, same station." He nodded to Dieter. "New backseater."

Dieter spoke up. "The weather is really bad down there," he said. "I've had the armament people load us up with wall-to-wall nape and CBU.

Court, I gave you six high-drag Mark eighty-twos. Morelli, you got the nape, Jensen you got the CBU." A pilot cannot visually dive-bomb in bad weather, but he can do shallow-angle dive-under fifteen degrees-and straight and level flight under the clouds if the threat isn't too high and the ceiling isn't too low."

They all made notes on their kneeboards, then Morelli kicked off his briefing with a joke about a one-eyed prost.i.tute. No one even cracked a smile.

"Hey, you guys are a tough audience," he said.

"Morelli," Dieter said, "for your information, it is not even Six A.M.

yet and here you are trying to gross us out."

"It was funny last night."

"Shut up and brief."