For the first time since he regained consciousness inside the cramped tunnel system, Sam feels a distinct sense of optimism. He also knows when he finally gets free of this place, he is not going to turn tail and head back to the U.S. He’s not leaving without Channy. As soon as he is above ground, he is going to hunt down the terrorist rat and bring him to justice. Not only for slaughtering all those innocent people, but also for murdering Cindy in cold blood. When Channy killed Cindy, he made it personal.

Sam slowly crawls, careful not to be careless, not to give in to temptation—the temptation to race through this newfound tunnel to a freedom he only imagines. But the more he slides himself along the packed gravel floor, the cooler the air seems to get. He begins to smell something fishy, and he hears what he swears is the sound of rushing water.

“The river,” he whispers to himself. “Only a few yards away.”

Defying his own sensibility, Sam speeds along the tunnel, crawling as fast as he can until suddenly, he comes to a dead stop. He’s not stopping because he wants to stop or needs to stop, but because something makes him stop. His heart jumps into his throat, and his entire body goes cold, despite the heat and humidity.

He’s entered into a trap.

The promise of escape lured him into a tunnel he should have avoided like the plague. How could he have fallen so easily for the trap, he has no idea. He wasn’t trained that way. But he’s desperate to get the hell out of the tunnels, desperate to find Channy, desperate to avenge Cindy’s murder.

Bracing himself, he shoves himself back the way he came.

But he doesn’t budge.

He tries once more.

Still stuck.

Sam is impossibly stuck inside a narrow underground tube in the pitch dark. His pulse is racing, his heart beating so fast he fears he might pass out.

“Calm down, Sam,” he says aloud as if the sound of his own voice will provide some pacification. “Calm down and think this thing through. Use your military training to get yourself out of this.”

He fully realizes he can’t just push himself back out. He’s in too tight, and his body is too big for the space. He must find a way to make himself smaller, thinner. To do this, he’s going to have to suck in some air, narrow his waist while, at the same time, elongating his body. He brings both arms forward, locking his fingers together. He then stretches his legs out, presses them together. Sucking in a deep breath, he begins to slither his way backward.

He feels movement. Not a lot, but something.

He exhales, takes a break. Then, sucking in another breath, he holds it in and shoves himself backward again. More movement. Could he actually be freeing himself? Another thrust backward. This time he feels himself gaining an inch or two. Another push and he moves another couple of inches. One more shove and he’s able to reverse a few more inches until he’s entirely free.

“Yes!” he barks.

He’s so pleased he’s able to escape the trap, he wants to break out in laughter. But then he realizes he’s still trapped deep within the tunnels, still surrounded by total darkness, and still without any idea of how to proceed other than reversing himself and returning to the original tunnel. Realization sets in. A wave of ice-cold dread washes over him.

He slithers his way backward until his feet hit the wall of the original tunnel. As he attempts to retake his original position inside the underground tube, something important dawns on him. Somebody had to have physically placed him inside that first tunnel. Sam is five- feet-nine inches and one-hundred-ninety pounds of solid muscle. No way they could have dragged him inside such a cramped space for much of a distance. In fact, there’s no way they could have dragged him at all without having had to crawl through many meters of dark tunnels on their own.

That said, what if they didn’t drag him into the tunnel at all, but instead, simply placed him inside of it, dropping him near an opening? If that’s the case, he should not continue crawling away from his original position, but instead head back in the direction from which he came. If he can get himself back to the place he occupied when woke up, he can get himself the hell out. In theory, that is.

“Go left, Savage,” he whispers.

He proceeds to retrace his movements back to the place he woke up inside the tunnel. But he’s learned an invaluable lesson. This time he moves slowly, despite the nagging need to go like hell. He knows the same kind of trap could be easily waiting for him in this portion of the tunnel. Or perhaps another variety of trap. Something that could stab him, shoot him, or poison him. If the Viet Cong were one thing, it was inventive when it came to creating ways to kill or maim a man.

Sam crawls for maybe ten minutes, though it seems like ten hours. When he spots the little crack of sunlight peering through what looks to him like an overhead opening, he knows his instincts were balls-on correct. Now, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass how fast he goes. At least, that’s what he mumbles to himself. He crawls as fast as he can through the tunnel until the small crack of overhead light becomes bigger and bigger.

The exit tunnel on his right-hand side is vertical and angled at thirty-five degrees. It’s partially covered by an old wood trap door. The wood door must have broken at some point over the many years of its existence. No one from the NVC thought to repair it. That’s their mistake, or so Sam thinks. Moving swiftly, he climbs upward through the tunnel but stops just short of bursting through the opening. What if some of the NVC are standing there? What if they fully anticipated his escape?

Bringing his face to the opening in the wood trap door, he attempts to make a quick survey of his surroundings. But the angle doesn’t allow him to see a whole hell of a lot, other than treetops. From what he can gather, the coast is crystal clear. Or so it seems. He takes a moment to listen. He hears nothing but insects buzzing, birds chirping and cawing, a monkey or two howling off in the distance, and what he thinks is a four-legged rodent scurrying past.

Slowly, he opens the door and slips out. From down on his chest, he takes a far better look around. Still nothing. He jumps to his feet, stands a bit wobbly and out of balance as the blood rushes to his lower extremities. Now, he takes a three-hundred-sixty-degree survey, spinning on the balls of his feet. Nothing but second-growth jungle and a narrow trail that must lead to Channy’s jungle headquarters—that’s what Sam’s gut is telling him.

He takes a moment to gather his bearings. Maybe he can’t see it with the naked eye, but he knows the Saigon River is located on his right in an easterly direction. He knows the tunnels connect to the river and also to the NVC compound and headquarters. That means it’s located either directly in front of Sam or behind him. Since the narrow path is non-existent behind him, his gut tells him he’ll find Channy laying low in his jungle hideout in the not too distant territory before him to the north.

Sam walks.

He’s feeling a little vulnerable if not naked without a weapon. Maybe, if he stumbles upon an NVC soldier, he can disable the terrorist and steal his weapon. But it’s something he can’t count on. It may very well be that Sam will have to confront Channy with only his bare hands. If that’s what God has in store, then so be it. He walks on. But before long, he feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise up.

What if the path is booby-trapped? Sam thinks. This is the New Viet Cong we’re dealing with here. If they are anything like their Viet Cong predecessors, they are masters of booby-traps that aren’t engineered to kill, necessarily, but to terrorize and injure. To make a man suffer terrible pain.

Sam pictures punji stick traps constructed of long, sharp spikes smeared with urine and feces, so they not only inflict serious damage to the poor soul who steps on them, but they also cause horrible infection. He’s thinking about snake pits and spike-covered bamboo whips. These are just a few of the potential traps Sam studied during his Ranger training in the late 1990s.

Options, Sam tells himself. You can either continue walking the trail and pray it’s not bobby trapped. Or you can bushwhack your way to Channy’s camp.

It doesn’t take a whole lot of thought since it’s not his brain he’s relying on so much as his gut.

“You know what they say, Sam,” he whispers. “U.S. Army Rangers lead the way.”

He decides to bushwhack.

The jungles of Cu Chi are once again lush and thick. At one time, during the war, American B52 high altitude bombers and their incendiary, Napalm-filled bombs decimated the original forest, reducing it to a moonscape. But now, more than forty years later, the jungle has returned and along with it, thick brush and tall trees. Not to mention all the insects and wild animals that go with it. Sam shoves his way through the foliage, wishing he had a machete on him.

The going is slow, and he’s careful to be as quiet as possible, but in his heart, he knows he’s doing the right thing by bushwhacking. His field of vision is not so great, but so long as he keeps the river on his right, he knows he’ll eventually come upon Channy’s headquarters.

His body is covered in sweat. Wearing jeans might not be the greatest choice for this mission, but at least he’s wearing jungle boots. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a black bandana, folds it a few times, then wraps it around his head, tying the two ends together. It will keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. He moves on, dry leaves and twigs snapping under his feet, branches slapping at his face and his arms. Mosquitoes swarm around him, relentless in their attack. But Sam can’t concern himself with that. He must focus only on Channy.

He comes upon a small clearing maybe one-hundred feet long by about the same distance wide. He’s happy for the chance to make some ground without having to fight for it. Breathing in the hot, overly humid air, he steps out onto the clearing and begins to lightly jog his way across it. He doesn’t make it half way when he spots a small wooden sign that’s been spiked into the ground. On the sign is painted a black skull and crossbones. Under the bones are printed the English words: DANGER MINEFIELD.

 

 

 

 

 

Sam stops in his tracks. He ceases all movement—forward, lateral, reverse, or otherwise. He becomes a statue in the middle of the jungle. Heart in mouth, he slowly lowers himself to the ground. Here’s the thing: Sam knows precisely how to traverse a live minefield. Problem is, he’s not in possession of any of the tools that will help him make it across without getting blown to bits, the least of which, is a bayonet. The sharp end of the bayonet would be used to probe the earth for anything hard, like the metal housing on a landmine.

He searches for a stick long enough and hard enough to penetrate the jungle floor. He’s surrounded by sticks and twigs of all sizes and lengths, but he sees one stick in particular out the corner of his eye. A stick that’s maybe a foot long and thin enough to do the job. He reaches for it. But it’s beyond his reach.

“I’ll be a dumb son of a bitch,” Sam whispers under his breath. “No choice but to go after it.”

He could go back the way he came and simply go around the field. But he knows it’s a miracle he made it this far without stepping on a live mine. He’s not at all convinced he’d have the same luck attempting to retrace his steps in reverse. The best option is to grab that stick and continue making his way forward. Inhaling a breath, he takes a tentative step to the left. And another.

“I’m still here,” he says aloud. “Still in one piece.”

Bending, he grabs hold of the stick. He then slowly, carefully drops to his knees. No explosions. No limbs blasted apart. No need for his soul to go to the light on its way to the afterlife.

“Still here,” he repeats, his heart pumping in his throat. “I’m. Still. Here.”

He proceeds to gently poke the stick into the soft jungle earth. He inches his way forward, poking the stick the entire time, knowing if the stick should come into contact with something solid, he has no choice but to dig up the earth all around the solid mass. It’s tedious work, but it’s the only thing that’s going to save his sorry ass in the minefield.

Moving forward ever so slowly, Sam concentrates on his work, the sweat dripping off his face onto his hands. What he wouldn’t give for a hammock and a cold glass of lemonade, or better yet, a cold beer. But best not to think about those things right now. Better to concentrate on the task at hand. He pokes and inches forward. At first, he’s not aware of the black clouds slowly moving in. He’s simply concentrating too hard. So, when the first lightning strike flashes overhead, followed by an artillery-like barrage of thunder, his first instinct is to assume he’s mistakenly set off a landmine. He’s almost afraid to peer down at his limbs just in case they’re no longer there.

Another lightning strike. It connects with a tree at the far end of the clearing. Thunder crashes and the tree splits in two. Then two more strikes and yet another. The thunder reverberates like bombs being dropped from a B52. It rattles Sam to his very core. The earth seems to tremble beneath him. Then comes a downpour so heavy, he can hardly see his hands before his face. His body becomes quickly soaked. No choice but to continue poking and prodding for mines.

The stick hits something solid.

Sam thinks that it could be a rock. But that just might be wishful thinking. The lightning blasts around him. The monsoon-like rain soaks the earth. Still, he digs up the ground with his fingertips as gently as possible until he feels a solid metal housing and a pin lodged in its center. It’s a live landmine. The six-penny nail-sized pin is the trigger. Breathing heavily, Sam gets back up on his feet and walks over the mine. He then drops back down slowly onto his knees and resumes his search.

As the storm moves away, Sam finds himself with only about ten feet to go before the clearing once more gives way to thick forest and what he can only assume is the end of the minefield. That’s when he hears voices. They’re coming from across the field in the direction of the river. Men walking the trail.

NVC men.

If Sam is caught out in the open, he will be easy prey for the armed bandits. It will be like shooting a great big fish in a really small barrel. He’s got to seek cover and do it fast.

“Fuck it,” he whispers.

Raising himself, he speed-walks toward the jungle. Convinced every step he takes will be his last, he approaches the edge of the clearing with his eyes closed. But the closer he comes to the end, the more optimistic he becomes about his chances for survival. Each step he takes without detonating a mine is one big giant leap for his health, one small step toward killing Channy. The voices of the NVC grow louder, the terrorist soldiers getting closer to the edge of the open field. Sam only has one more step to go before he disappears inside the forest.

He takes the step and depresses the trigger on a live landmine.

Sam makes like a statue for the second time. He knows once he lifts his foot, the landmine will explode. It will take both legs off and maybe even an arm or two. But the soldiers are coming ever closer. In only a matter of seconds, they’ll see Sam, and they’ll shoot him on the spot. He can either die by landmine or by firing squad. Or hell . . . both.

He does have a third option, but it’s a long shot. No, scratch that, longer than a long shot. If he makes like a long jumper and leaps into the jungle, there’s a chance the upward blast will miss him entirely. The landmine has to be nearly fifty years old, and he’s banking on the trigger being rusted or maybe even inoperable at this stage of the game. Fact is, if this were a brand new, fresh mine, he’d already be fast on his way to heaven or hell. But with this one having not yet detonated, he’s wagering on the possibility the trigger is old and no longer working properly. Wagering his life. High stakes considering his current predicament.

As the overly loud NVC soldiers approach the clearing, he bends his knees. Holding his hands out before him like a diver, he springs off the landmine.

The mine detonates. But did it detonate right away? Or was there a slight, half-second to one-second delay? It all happens so fast, Sam is afraid to look at his legs for fear they will still be lying in the minefield. He has no choice but to look. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that his legs are still attached, and not even his feet seem to have suffered a single scratch from the blast. He breathes a second and third sigh of relief.

The problem now, however, is not mines but terrorists bearing automatic weapons. Maybe he managed to escape the blast from the mine, but it’s succeeded in attracting the attention of the New Viet Cong. He spots the three terrorists coming toward him, not through the minefield but around it.

“Only one thing to do, Sam,” he whispers to himself. “Run like hell.”

He sprints through the thick jungle. While the heavy rain pours down from the low-lying dark clouds, he makes his way toward the narrow trail. From there he might be able to make it to the river. If he can manage that, he can dive in and take his chances on swimming away. He won’t have captured Channy, or gotten his just revenge for Cindy’s murder, but at least he’ll be free and alive. God knows he’s no good to this mission, or Cindy’s memory for that matter, as a dead man.

At this point, he’s no longer concerned about the booby traps that could be set along the trail. He’s already been spotted, so they are on to his presence. They know he must have escaped the tunnels and no doubt the three NVC behind him have radioed ahead to Channy’s headquarters.

He runs as fast as his tired legs will take him, the leaves and branches of the trees slapping his face, bringing tears to his eyes. Lightning returns along with loud blasts of thunder. He feels like he’s gone back in time. Like it’s 1968, and he’s fighting a long-forgotten war against the Viet Cong. He runs like hell because he is unarmed and if they catch him, they will kill him.

He comes upon a path that connects with the main trail and parallels the river. The main trail provides just enough relief from the heavily foliaged jungle that he’s able to pick up speed. He might have made it all the way to the river, too, if not for the pit he drops into.

He never saw the trapdoor since it was entirely camouflaged with jungle debris and he was running like hell. Immediately, Sam knows this isn’t an old, used up booby trap left over from the war but a brand new one. It doesn’t contain spikes. It contains something much more dangerous.

Snakes.

Bamboo pit vipers to be exact. Sam is standing in a pool of them, many of them with their heads raised ready to strike. If not for the heavy rain, he knows he’d already be struck. When another burst of lightning flashes and a thunderous explosion immediately follows, the poised snakes hide their heads.

“Now,” Sam barks at himself as he pulls himself up and over the pit wall. Then, with rage building inside him. “Enough is enough.”

He hears the three New Viet Cong coming after him through the thick foliage. This time, he’s not going to run. This time, it’s he—Sam Savage—who’s going to play the part of the booby trap.

He searches for the perfect tree, finds one with low lying branches, and he begins to climb. Like a monkey, he climbs a dozen feet above ground. He’s betting on the soldiers taking the narrow trail, just like he did moments ago. When they see that he fell into the snake pit, they will stop to contemplate where he could have run off too. They’ll wonder why he isn’t writhing in pain inside the pit. They’ll wonder why he isn’t screaming for help.

That’s when Sam will make his move.

The downpour suddenly stops. He waits in the quiet of the jungle—a quiet that isn’t quiet at all. Instead, it is a dirge filled with sounds of the storm moving off beyond the river plus insects and birds calling to one another from the treetops. Soon, he finds himself peering down on the heads of the three NVC terrorists. Like the Viet Cong of old, they wear loose-fitting, lightweight black pajama bottoms and tops. On their feet, black sandals made from rubber tires and the identical pith-style helmets their forefathers wore during the American and French Wars. The terrorists have AK-47s strapped to their shoulders. The weapons look brand new like they just rolled off the Russian assembly lines. The only thing about the new version of the NVC are the smartphones these soldiers no doubt carry in their pajama pockets.

Sam watches them do as he predicted, they stop when they come to the snake pit and peer down at the snakes. One man makes a joke in Vietnamese, and the others laugh. The same jokester of a man pulls out a cigarette, places it between his lips. Another man reaches into his pajama pocket, pulls out a Zippo lighter, strikes a flame.

This is my chance, Sam thinks as he poises himself.

As the jokester’s cigarette is being lit by the Zippo flame, Sam jumps off the branch onto Jokester’s shoulders. The terrorist collapses under Sam’s weight and drops his rifle. Sam immediately snatches up the AK-47. He fires a burst into the other two terrorists even before they can pull their weapons off their shoulders.

Jokester is on the ground, the cigarette between his lips. His entire body is trembling.

“Please, no shoot,” he pleads, his hands raised in surrender.

“You’re right,” Sam says. “I won’t shoot. Tell you what I’m going to do instead.”

Raising his boot heel, Sam kicks the New Viet Cong soldier into the snake pit.

“Sorry, but I can’t take prisoners,” Sam says.

Bending down, he retrieves the Zippo lighter lying on the trail. The lighter gives him an idea.

“Burn baby burn,” he whispers to himself as he attempts to picture exactly what Channy’s jungle compound might look like on fire.

Grabbing the other two AK-47s from the dead terrorists, he walks off along the trail to Jokester’s ear-piercing screams.

After walking a safe enough distance, Sam pulls the thirty-round banana clips out of the other two AK-47s. Hanging onto the magazines, he tosses the rifles into the thick brush where they will no doubt rot for all eternity. He shoves the extra magazines into the waist of his pants against his back and checks the load on the magazine presently inserted into his AK-47’s housing. Aside from the short blast he used to neutralize the two terrorists, he’s pretty much got himself a full magazine. Shoving the magazine back into the housing, he pulls back on the bolt. He’s locked and loaded.

The bandana wrapped around his forehead, his face covered in stubble and sweat, both sleeves on his khaki work-shirt torn all the way up to his shoulder exposing formidable biceps and triceps, the automatic rifle gripped in both his hands, Sam feels a determination he has not felt since the war in Afghan country. It’s a sensation that wells up from deep in his soul. It’s from knowing that he is on the side of right and his enemy is clearly on the wrong side of history. An enemy who kills in the name of righteousness when, in fact, it is nothing more than cold-blooded murder. Sure, the American Vietnam War should not have happened. But it wasn’t Sam’s idea any more than slavery was his invention all those centuries ago. It also wasn’t the idea of all those innocent men, women, and children who died inside the Ho Chi Minh InterContinental Hotel. It wasn’t Cindy’s fault either.

Channy’s smiling face clearly on his brain, Sam connects with the main trail—the trail that follows the Saigon River. He senses the compound can’t be very far or he would not have come upon those three NVC soldiers. He walks slowly, taking deliberate but careful steps. He’s made it this far, and he doesn’t want to risk becoming the victim of yet another booby trap or leftover minefield.

In the near distance, Sam makes out voices. He immediately drops down to his belly and begins crawling, not along the narrow trail, but in the bush. Coming to the very edge of the bush, he looks down on a compound in a clearing.

The compound.

Channy’s compound.

It consists of four, rectangular, thatched roof and bamboo walled huts neatly placed in a checkerboard pattern with a large space in the center. He’s guessing that two of them are used for housing terrorist soldiers of the NVC, another for a dining hall and another as a weapons store. He could be wrong, but the ex-Army Ranger is probably not too far off in his assumptions. Beyond the four buildings is another wooden tin-roofed shack set on an incline with a series of steps leading up to an attached front porch. The shack has two AK-47-armed sentries guarding its front door.

“Channy’s HQ,” Sam whispers to himself.

If only he had a pair of binoculars, he could get a better look. He has no choice but to go with his naked eyes. Soldiers attached to one assignment or another methodically move in and out of the huts. Meanwhile, a line of soldiers are cued up outside the door to the dining hut. It’s supper time. An open fire pit is situated in the circular center of the huts, and two women dressed in black NVC uniforms are busy cooking something in stainless steel pots. On the far outskirts of the rectangular settlement is a clothesline with laundry hanging on it.

Night is quickly falling, and Sam knows what he’s got to do. He must not only destroy the compound and all the weapons and explosives it contains, but he must draw Channy out in the open. What that means is neutralizing as many of the NVC terrorists as possible. If he can narrow the odds down to just him and Channy, Sam feels confident he can arrest Channy, drag him back to the U.S. embassy in Ho Chi Minh all on his own.

Reaching into his pocket, Sam pulls out the Zippo lighter. As he rises to his feet, he strikes a flame.

Under cover of darkness, Sam makes his way into the compound. He goes to the closest hut, brings the flame to the corner of the thatched roof. It might have rained for part of the afternoon, but the palms are dry as hell. The flame instantly takes, immediately spreads. He scoots to the second hut, lights that one up. Keeping out of the way of any prowling soldiers, he lights the third hut and then the fourth. His initial job done, he once again disappears into the trees like a ghost.

Watching from the edge of the forest, he’s amazed at how quickly all the huts go up in flames. NVC soldiers pour out of the dining hut, their uniforms ablaze. They are screaming and shouting at one another. A couple drops to their knees and burn on the spot. An alarm sounds and maybe a dozen soldiers appear with AK-47s gripped in their hands. They are looking desperately over both shoulders for the person or persons responsible for setting fire to their compound.

“But they’re not gonna find him,” Sam whispers as he takes careful aim at a cluster of three soldiers.

He fires. The soldiers are cut down at the waist. Knowing he’s just given away his position, Sam shoots and scoots fifty feet to his right. While the NVC attack his previous position, he takes up a new position on their left flank and shoots them down one by one. Falling back into the bush, he sprints through the dark forest, not paying attention to the branches that slap at his face, the pain masked by the adrenaline rush. He’s singularly focused on one thing: making the NVC believe they are under attack from all angles.

He reaches the opposite side of the compound, only a few dozen meters away from Channy’s wood shack. He fires into a half dozen enemy soldiers. One terrorist’s head explodes. Another is cut in half at the waist. Two are shot in the thighs. One soldier’s hand is blown completely away. Sam retreats into the jungle. He moves along the perimeter, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds at a time.

Shoot and scoot is the name of the game.

The fires burn out of control. Some NVC attempt putting it out with water from buckets, but it’s like spitting into the ocean. Sam knows that in just a matter of moments, the weapons and explosive depot is going to detonate. When that happens, he plans on being further inside the relative safety of the jungle. There’s no telling how much explosive they have stored inside the building. But if he had to guess, it’s a substantial amount.

He stops when he comes to the back of Channy’s shack. Releasing the empty magazine, he replaces it with a fresh one. Pulling back on the bolt, Sam takes aim at the rough wood plank wall, and fires at will. The bullets do what he intends them to do. They penetrate the wall and maybe, just maybe, take out Channy and his generals. At the very least, the live rounds will force them out into the compound, and the impending explosion can take care of the rest. To hell with bringing Channy in alive.

Having emptied half a magazine into the shack, Sam sprints further down the line. He fires into another crew of NVC terrorists, managing to kill them all. He then makes his way around the rectangle until he is back to the place in the jungle where he started. Breathing heavily, he peers onto the compound. He spots a shirtless Channy standing at the foot of the shack’s steps. The terrorist/POI has a semi-automatic gripped in his hand. He’s waving it in the air, barking out orders while his entire NVC world burns down around him.

Shouldering his AK-47, Sam takes careful aim on the lead terrorist, his finger on the trigger. He exhales a half breath, holds the rest of it in. He’s poised for a headshot that will end Channy’s life forever and ever. He pulls the trigger at the exact moment the entire compound blows sky high.