CHAPTER 12

War Cloud

Rick groped for his canteen and drank deeply from it. He was having a hard time staying awake. It made him angry.

He wondered if those indiscernible figures on either side of him were having the same problem. Then, in a blink, it was 0500.

The elasticity of time had accelerated his weariness. He yawned. He was glad daybreak was…

Rick heard a noise. He stiffened attentively. He felt the tension on the firing line as he remained frozen in position listening for Charlie.

His breathing became shallow. His eyes ceased to blink. His head tilted slowly to the right in an effort to listen. His emotions disappeared.

At an angle from several feet above, he saw his prone figure pointing an M-16 into the jungle's outer dark. He heard another sound, which drew his gaze away from himself and brought him back to his body. He thought he saw shadow movement, human movement.

He heard them again. They were moving carefully through the bush. But not careful enough to avoid death.

An explosion from Russo's claymore mine cleared the way for the others to squeeze their M57 firing devices, causing a barrage of similar explosions to clear a path of destruction. Rick heard the cry of men and the sound of gunfire, with their corresponding muzzle flashes, everywhere; he started firing his M-16 in rapid succession—he exchanged magazines twice and threw three grenades.

The enemy fired back in desperation but did little more than show courage in the face of defeat. Darkness was giving way to shadow when Rick realized his weapon was actually pointed at a silhouette. The rifle jerked softly against his shoulder; the shot was not random.

The cease-fire from Russo came as soon as the enemy's sporadic return fire ended and their-own attack became ragged. Then they listened for the cry of the wounded. But death's silence was all they heard. They had done their jobs mercifully well.

Russo approached Rick from the shadows. “You and Bearcat go down there and check things out.”

“Okay.”

“And for Christ's sake, be careful down there.”

“Yeah.”

It didn't take long for them to reach the trail but, when they did, he slipped onto his rump into a puddle of blood. It was a grizzly sight: body dismemberment, attitudes of death, and the human mud of dirt and blood. He remained seated as he studied a decapitated body that was plastered against a tree. He was a bit overwhelmed by the grotesque results of their work.

“Are you alright, Rick?”

He looked at Bearcat, noted his outstretched hand, and accepted it. Bearcat pulled him to his feet.

“Yeah. I'm alive.” And when he heard the others approaching the kill zone, his mind became clear again. “But I'll kill the first bastard who starts clipping earlobes or collecting teeth.”

“Hell, our guys don't do that stuff.”

“I swear to God, I will.”

“Okay. Okay.” Bearcat hesitated. “I'll…go check and make sure.” He scampered toward the approaching men.

Rick took off his bush cover and became a respectful sentry over the dead; he was determined to prevent any unnecessary mutilations.

“Goddamn, we blew the hell out of them!” Kafka shouted. He danced around like a marionette, unsure about what to do next.

“See if there is anyone alive.”

Kafka grinned uneasily as he looked around at the remains. “Can't be.”

“I know. Check anyway.”

“Sure. Sure.” Kafka regained his composure. “That's why I'm here.”

Rick watched him pick through the remains, noting that a hospital corpsman would have softened the activity with compassion. But corpsmen were in short supply these days, and recon teams had to make due with guys like Kafka who knew more about first aid than the average Marine. Besides, compassion was not a good trait for a professional soldier who had to be sure there wasn't an unexploded grenade pressed under a limb, waiting to release a deadly explosion.

Rick lit a cigarette and sighed: who was he to judge?

Kafka was a good man, a hardened bush Marine with three six-month extensions to his credit. He was tall and thin and so pale that the brutal Vietnam sun constantly burned his complexion. He was probably twenty-two years old. But the deep-set lines extending from his worried mouth and his harassed eyes erased much of his youth.

Russo stomped past them gnawing on a cigar.

“We've got to hurry and get out of here,” he said. “Search and be quick about it!” Bearcat extended a handful of documents to him before he had a chance to take another puff from his cigar. Russo eagerly snatched the papers and almost devoured his cigar as he scanned them. “Good. Good! Rick, here, take a look.”

“What have we got?”

“Look. An NVA colonel.”

“Yeah…shit…a real soldier.”

“Looks like some kind of consolidation going on near Quang Tri. Damn. I wish I knew more Vietnamese. What do you make of it?”

“I don't know, Sarge.”

The two of them studied the documents while the others continued searching through the bodies and the debris.

Suddenly, an explosion sheared off a tree at mid-length, creating a huge wooden lance suspended in the sky. Then it plummeted, impaling the earth with such force that it seemed to replant itself. But the tree began to lean, then came crashing down. Several more explosions hit the ground so violently that they shook Rick off his feet.

Russo's cigar fell from his mouth as he rolled toward Rick with astonishment. “What in God's name…”

“We've got to get the hell out of here, Sarge.”

“No shit!” Russo barked. He stood up, stuffed the documents into his right leg pocket, and started up the trail with an exaggerated gait that said: this way, right now, like this. They followed him east, up the trail.

Rick was surprised to hear the distant sound of a chopper. And in a short time, a Cobra roared past them. He was already grateful for the air support he knew they were going to get—he heard the Cobra fire one of its rockets. When they reached the top of a hill, Rick came alongside Russo, who still had the handset to his ear. He began to repeat the message he was receiving for Rick's sake.

“Better get the hell out of there. You have a battalion of NVA on your tails. I'll try to hold them back as long as I can. Run. Over.” Russo shook his head with dismay. “Geronimo, this is War Cloud. Roger. Out.”

There was nothing more to say. They knew it would be useless to ask for an extraction: any LZ would be too hot.

“No use wasting any more time,” Rick said.

“Right. Let's move out.”

They were fighting for their lives. One false move, one wrong decision, minutes lost in any direction would mean a fight to the death. The enemy was approaching them like a life-threatening storm at sea, leaving them no choice: they had to run before the wind.

Speed, not concealment, was what they desired now. But the trail was growing smaller and soon there would be no trail at all. Then the bush would impede their progress with its claws of branches and vines and thick brush tormenting them. But they had no choice. They had to bulldoze their way through: cursing and pulling and yanking themselves clear, and away from the enemy.