The rains came two days after Corbett’s visit.
The first one was light. Refreshing, because it broke the humidity and freshened the air. Children played in it, laughing and splashing in newly formed pools. But the next day’s rain was a heavier downpour, drenching everything, turning dirt paths into muddy bogs. Most of the villagers stayed inside, fighting leaky roofs and trying to stay out of it. The temperature plummeted, lightning split the skies, and the thunder seemed to rock the very foundations of the mountain itself.
Lincoln decided he would go the next night, unless the weather took a sudden turn.
By midafternoon on the third day, it was obvious that conditions were only getting worse. A ferocious wind blew through the village, tearing at bamboo walls and threatening to dislodge roofs. Ominous clouds piled on top of one another, forming thunderheads that looked tens of thousands of feet high. Major storms, including hurricanes, were regular visitors to New Bordeaux, and Lincoln had survived plenty, but this one looked sinister even to him. The rain started to patter against his walls and roof before he had even left.
All the better for his plan. He’d already loaded his pack with the things he thought he would need and set aside the equipment he wanted to take. Getting down the mountain would take longer than usual under these conditions, so he kissed Sho good-bye, ignoring her tears and her pleas for him to stay, and set off into the storm.
The route was treacherous. Trails that were easily passable in the dry season had turned to slippery muck. Water roared down the slopes, forcing Lincoln to struggle against powerful currents in formerly dry creek beds. Visibility was down to feet, not miles. Within minutes of leaving the longhouse, he was soaked to the skin, which made walking more difficult.
Several times he thought about turning around, going back to Sho’s loving arms and a warm fire. To keep himself focused, he pictured the dead men of Vang Khom and pushed himself onward.
Night fell before he reached the jars, though the day had turned so dark it hardly seemed to matter. Lincoln was curious about the jars—had the past three days filled them to their brims? The sheer tonnage of falling water seemed adequate to the task. But he had someplace to be, and the dark was his ally; he had to get there in time to make use of it.
The jungle between the jars and the camp seemed louder than usual. Rain drummed against the canopy overhead, and every drop seemed to hit a thousand leaves as it trickled through and fell to the earth. The usual animal sounds were missing; either they had all taken cover, or they were just drowned out by the downpour.
He left the game trail before he reached the tree line, not trusting that the Pathet hadn’t finally booby-trapped his path. From here, he would cut through the forest. The way would be harder and slower, but the storm’s racket would dwarf any noise he might make.
Finally, scratched and bleeding in addition to being soaked and chafed, he arrived at the edge of the clearing. He had come in near the southwest corner, where there was no watchtower. It was also, conveniently enough, closest to the building where he believed the colonel dwelled. The journey had been long and difficult, but the truly hard work was about to begin.
Lincoln set his pack down on a fallen tree and retrieved a container from inside it. Corbett had given it to him, and it contained grease used on his plane. He set it aside and found a small paper bag—soaked through, now—that held a dozen steel S hooks. Those he set into the eyelets in his web belt. He had carried an AR-30 down from the village, along with plenty of ammo, but had not had to use it. He would leave it here—it would only get in his way. He would take two grenades, and he would take a suppressed Elling 9mm pistol. If having overwhelming firepower became an issue, he was dead anyway. He was counting on stealth, not lead, to get him in and out. He would adopt the techniques of North Vietnamese sapper attacks, which often became suicide missions, and use them against the Laotian allies of the NVA.
He peeled off his wet clothes, dipped his fingers into the grease, and spread it over his legs, torso, and arms. His dark brown skin would hide him, but the grease would help, and it would also keep him warm. Then, leaving on only his underwear and the knife at his ankle, he strapped the belt around his waist, with the holster, grenades, a single ammo pouch, and the S hooks attached.
Hoping the cleared area had not been mined since the earlier attack, he started across it. He doubted it—the attack had been repelled so easily, the Pathet Lao were probably convinced that their defenses were adequate. And the only real damage had been from mortar rounds and RPGs, which land mines wouldn’t protect against.
Between the darkness and the rain, his skin color and the grease, he felt almost invisible as he approached the fence. He could see a handful of cigarettes glowing, but only in protected areas; under the roofs of the towers and close to the barracks buildings. He didn’t think many soldiers, if any, were at the machine gun emplacements or patrolling the wire.
The fences were as he remembered them; chain link outer, concertina wire along the ground, then ten strands of barbed wire. He could cut through with wire cutters, but that would leave him exposed, and the clicks might give him away. Instead, he would use the mud and the grease to his advantage.
Reaching the first fence, Lincoln went down to his knees, then to his belly. The ground was soft enough here that he was able to scoop it away with his hands, making a space under the chain link. It would be a tight fit, but he thought he could do it. He pushed himself under, arms first, then turned his head and skidded through the cold mud on his left cheek. When it came to his shoulders, he had to burrow deeper, like an animal, but the grease helped him slide through. Once his shoulders were clear, the rest was easy; he had only to swim forward, using his arms to propel himself, until he scooted all the way through.
So far so good. The concertina wire would present problems of its own, but he had a plan for that, too. Approaching the first coil, he took the wire in between the razored barbs and lifted it to a coil above. Then he slipped an S hook from his belt—he had lost a couple going under the chain link, he realized, but he still had plenty—and hooked the two lengths together. He moved down and did the same a little more than a foot from the first, and it gave him the clearance he needed to slide beneath.
On the second row, he miscalculated slightly and felt the razor wire bite into his shoulder. It stung, but he knew the grease and mud would fill the wound and keep it from bleeding too much. He repeated the S hook trick on the third and last row, giving himself a little more space. When he had to beat a hasty retreat, knowing where the openings were would give him an advantage over the Pathet.
Finally, he was at the barbed wire. The strands were taut, but he was able to lift the first one to the height of the second and clip them together with the S hooks, then lift the second almost to the third and clip those. It didn’t give him full clearance, but with the soupy mud beneath, it should be enough. A few more cuts were a small price to pay.
Another swim through the muck and he was inside the line. So far, no alarm had been raised. He couldn’t see a soul from here and didn’t think anyone could see him. Even if a light fell on him, all they would see was a pair of eyes floating through the night.
He stopped long enough to check the pistol, ensuring that its barrel hadn’t become packed with mud. It was cleaner than he expected, so he shoved it back into the holster.
At a crouch, avoiding illuminated areas, he cut across the camp to what he had come to know as the parade ground, though it was too small for any real parades. It was an inky pool near the center of the camp. In it, he stopped once more, checked his pistol again, and unsnapped the strap around the knife’s grip. The colonel’s quarters sat dead ahead—or at least Lincoln thought that was where Phan could be found. If he was wrong about this, then the whole mission would be a pointless exercise, probably ending in his death.
But he didn’t think he was. A Pathet Lao colonel—one known to the CIA as a “warlord”—wouldn’t share lodging with his men. He would want his own place, and the smallish, square building was the only one that qualified. The fact that there was a jeep, or the Chinese equivalent thereof, backed up close to the door also testified to the occupant’s importance.
Besides, he saw now, there was a guard outside it. He was huddled under an overhang that probably didn’t keep him very dry. He was smoking, and he appeared to be shivering. Chances were, keeping an eye out for a single intruder was the furthest thing from his mind.
The guard wouldn’t hold still. He was probably trying to stay warm while wearing a uniform every bit as oversaturated as Lincoln’s had become. He was twitchy, turning this way and that, sucking down smoke and hoping for warmth, then lighting another cigarette from the tip of the first. Lincoln moved closer, slowly, staying low. If the man kept up the same pattern, Lincoln knew when his chance would come.
Luckily, the man was true to form. As his cigarette shortened to a stub, he reached under his slicker for another. At that moment, Lincoln charged across the remaining distance. The guard didn’t react until one of Lincoln’s feet hit a puddle and splashed, but his hands were inside his coat and he couldn’t reach his gun. Lincoln leapt, got one hand on the guard’s face and another around his chest, and snapped the man’s neck. When Lincoln released him, he crumpled to the mud with a rustle that was barely audible over the rain pelting the roof.
Inside, there might be another guard and there might not. If the opportunity had presented itself for Lincoln to watch longer, he might have known for sure. But he hadn’t had that opportunity, and at this point, it didn’t matter that much. Guard or not, the man he wanted was inside there, so he was going in.
The door wasn’t locked. It looked like there was light around its edges, which could be a problem; if he opened it and light spilled through, anyone watching in this direction might be alerted. On the other hand, for all he knew people came and went all night long, and no one would give it a second thought. Lincoln had no way to tell and no alternative way inside anyway.
He opened the door as narrowly as he could, slipped inside, and closed it again.
The inside was more luxurious than he had expected. At the front of the room was an ornate desk, with an inkwell and a blotter and a leather desk pad. Two straight-backed chairs for visitors stood close by.
Behind that was an Oriental trifold screen, and behind the screen, Lincoln found Colonel Phan. He was asleep in a bed covered in silken sheets and pillows and protected by mosquito netting bunched at a central point overhead. Not far from the bed, an electric floor lamp burned—the source of the light. Apparently the colonel was afraid of the dark.
As Lincoln crossed toward the bed, a floorboard squeaked under his foot. Phan stirred at the sound, then opened his eyes. After a beat, they flew open wide.
Lincoln almost felt sorry for the man. From what seemed to be a sound sleep, he had awakened and looked up to see a nightmare in black, coated in mud and grease, coming directly toward him with a pistol in his hand. The sight must have been horrifying, Lincoln thought.
Phan certainly found it that way. He pawed at the bed, trying to rise to a sitting position. He had a holstered pistol and a sword Lincoln knew as a dha on a low table next to the bed, and panicked, he flung a hand toward them. Instead of the gun, he found the dha, yanked it toward him, and drew it from its scabbard.
Lincoln didn’t hesitate. He cleared the space in a single bound, landing on the bed and dropping the gun. One knee smashed into Phan’s chest, forcing the wind from him so he couldn’t cry out. Lincoln ripped the dha from the colonel’s hand, spun it around, and drove its point up through Phan’s throat and chin and out the top of his head.
It took only seconds for the colonel to die. Lincoln studied the scene, wanting to remember every detail. The sword’s blade tapered away from the grip, then widened again near the end, where bits of gray matter dangled. The cylindrical grip and scabbard were both black lacquer, with rattan strips on the scabbard and a cord baldric to suspend it from a strap. The end of the grip was capped by a coin stamped “Indochine Francaise.”
The colonel was a whip-thin man, the skin of his face so tight every detail of the musculature seemed to show through. His teeth were yellow and in terrible shape, and the thrust of the sword through his mouth had pinned it open to display them to their worst. Blood was running out the corners.
Lincoln hoped that, in his final seconds, Phan had known that it was an American who had come to snuff out his life.
Satisfied that he had accomplished what he came for, he retrieved his pistol and started toward the door.
He had taken two steps when it flew open wide.