Hunting with Tigers

By Eugene Basilici

During the Vietnamese War, a Washington-approved sanctuary for enemy troops in Laos and Cambodia is a recipe for disaster, but a covert CIA operation made up of Special Forces volunteers deemed expendable, penetrates the borders and neutralizes the enemy's advantage. The Green Berets, Rick Barinelli, Warren Fahey, and Bob Akamura, make a pact: If any one of them goes missing, the others will commit to, "rescue, ransom, or revenge."

Barinelli, conflicted with a growing passion for a beautiful Vietnamese woman, Ai Dao, gains distinction for intel successes that disrupt the Tet Offensive and becomes known to the enemy as "the Gray Ghost". Hanoi orders General Wong to capture or kill him regardless of cost, and the brilliant and sadistic Wong spins an elaborate trap. He orchestrates the kidnapping of Ai Dao, but captures the headstrong Akamura instead. Now, against harrowing odds, it's up to Barinelli and Fahey to attempt their rescue.

Racing to a shattering climax, Hunting With Tigers illustrates how ordinary men can rise to acts of selfless heroism within the savagery of war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 11, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595918751

Eugene Basilici

Eugene Basilici was born in Dedham, Massachusetts, in 1935. A Korean War veteran, he moved to Florida with his wife, Tarese, in 1961, and raised a family. This is his fifth novel.

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HUNTING WITH TIGERS

Copyright © 2008 by Eugene B. Basilici

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Contents

Author’s Preface

Glossary

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

This book is dedicated to the memory of my brother, the late CSM Richard A. Basilici and to the service of thousands of other courageous men who, over the years, volunteered into the U.S. Army’s Special Forces.

We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm. George Orwell

Author’s Preface

The history of America is replete with individual acts of heroism and selflessness—patriots risking and often giving their lives for their country in moments of high drama. But it is less common to find men who face mortal danger day in and day out; who repeatedly go in harm’s way all alone or in small units and who routinely exhibit a selfless courage above and beyond the call of duty.

Such men make up the brotherhood of Special Forces, a select fraternity of heroes, and I’ve been honored to know a few of them.

The Vietnamese War was America’s longest war. Fully 75% of the U.S. military serving in it were volunteers. Contrary to popular belief, American forces never lost a single, significant battle and never surrendered a single unit to the enemy. 97% of Vietnam vets were honorably discharged.

This novel is based on factual occurrences. Its protagonist is grounded in the character of my brother, the late CSM Richard A. Basilici, US Army, Special Forces, Ret., (b.1939-d.1997).

During a tour in Vietnam, 1968-69, Dick volunteered for Detachment B-57, Project Gamma. He was a natural-born warrior, happiest with his buddies; happiest confounding the enemy. He was so effective, the North Vietnamese put a price on his head, but were unable to stop him or slow him down. That would be left, years later, to the debilitating effects of Agent Orange.

Dick was a hero in every sense of the word, earning the National Defense Service Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal with Silver Star, Republic of Vietnam Gallantry Cross Citation Badge, Bronze Star, Meritorious Unit Commendation Medal, Army Commendation Medal, Meritorious Service Medal, Army Achievement Medal, Master Jump Master Parachutist Badge, Military Free Fall Jump Master Badge, Combat Infantry Badge, Special Forces Tab and foreign parachutist badges to include Greek, German, British and Korean.

He passed away a decade ago, secure in the belief that, in addition to his wife, children, and grandchildren, his Special Forces career had given profound meaning to his life.

Dick is buried at Arlington National Cemetery. I miss him every day that goes by.

My special thanks to Warren Fisler, Wade Ishimoto and other Special Forces veterans who served with my brother and, because of him, shared some of their stories with me. I’m forever grateful for their trust and friendship.

A glossary of terms and Vietnam-era slang has been appended to the front of the book.

Gene Basilici, Margate, FL

Glossary

AK-47—Soviet Kalashnikov assault rifle; the basic weapon ofCommu-nist forces.

A-Team—Basic 10 or 12 man team of U.S. Special Forces.

Ao Dai—Traditional tunic-top dress of Vietnamese women.

Article 15—company punishment for minor infractions

Ba—A married woman. Used as title, like Mrs.

Bird—Any plane, but mostly used to refer to a chopper; a helicopter.

Blooker, (also called a blooper)—M-79 shotgun-like grenade launcher.

Boonies—The field of operations; usually far out in jungles or swamps. Boonie-hat—Soft hat worn by boonie-rats out in the boonies. Boonie-rat—Combat infantryman.

C-4—Very stable, plastic explosive; can only be detonated by detonation devices.

Car-15—Short-barreled, lightweight, semi and fully automatic, carbine rifle.

Charlie—Viet Cong, VC, Victor Charlie, Cong, guerrillas: the enemy.

Chogie—To move out. Cut a chogie—To move out quickly. Carry over from Korea.

Chopper—Helicopter

Co—Unmarried woman; used as title, like Miss. Co Cong—Female Viet Cong. Cobra—a Huey Attack Helicopter. Commo—Communications

Connex Container—Corrugated metal packing crate, approx. 6 foot cube.

Continuous Wave—CW, Morse Code

Dai uy—Captain. Also used by indigenous forces for any S.F. advisor or leader.

Didi Mau—Leave quickly.

Dinks—derogatory term for the enemy. Also, Gooks, Slopes, Zipper-heads.

Dong—S. Vietnamese coin

Foo-Gas—Mixture of explosives and napalm.

Fubar—Fucked up beyond all recognition.

Hmong—Dominant Laotian hill tribe, allied with Americans.

Hootch—Hut, farm house; any dwelling not in an urban area.

Huey—Helicopter, with many variations in Vietnamese War.

In-country—Vietnam

Indian country—Enemy held territory

Indigenous—General term referring to hill tribes of Indochina; mostly allies, (Indigs).

Kha—derogatory Vietnamese term for Lao and/or Cambodian peasants.

Khong Biet—Viet term; „I don‘t know or „I don‘t understand.

Khong Xau—Viet term; „Don‘t worry about it; „Not bad.

Krom—Indigenous hill tribe.

Lurrps—Long-range reconnaissance patrols.

M-16—Standard U.S. rifle in Vietnam

Makarov—Russian 9.5 mm pistol.

Montagnards—Central Highlands tribe; strong U.S. allies.

Nungs—Tribe of Chinese origin; from N. Vietnam highlands. Also allies.

NVA—North Vietnamese Army, (regulars). Pathet Lao—Laotian Communist guerrillas. Piasters—Vietnamese currency. Point—Walking the point; lead man on a patrol. RLA—Royal Laotian Army RPG—Russian-made, rocket propelled grenade Ruck—Rucksack; Backpack for U.S. infantry.

SVA—South Vietnamese Army, (regulars).

Serei—Cambodian anti-Communist fighters

Shake and Bake—A sergeant who made rank through NCO school.

Slackman—The second man in a patrol file; right in back of the point.

Slick—a Huey chopper without armament; used for transport.

Straight legs—‘Legs‘; term for infantry; non-airborne, army personnel.

Tokarev—Soviet-made, TT33; 7.62mm automatic pistol.

Viet Minh—originally led by Ho Chi Minh against the Japanese and French. Many Viet Minh joined the Americans against the VC and NVA after ‚65.

Walter Wonderful—Walter Reed Military Hospital in D.C. Xin Loi—Vietnamese for, „I‘m sorry." Xu—S. Vietnamese coin ‚Yards—Short for Montagnards.

CHAPTER 1

Out in Indian country, SFC Rick Barinelli’s eyes were never still. Restless, sweeping from flank to flank, he searched for anomalies; anything out of place; anything giving even the barest hint of danger. But there was nothing; no reason for his gut to be tightening up; yet, there it was. And it wasn’t just the torrid heat. Maybe the blast-furnace sun hammering them from out of a cloudless sky exacerbated it, but it wasn’t the heat. Like being in a God damned sauna, he thought. Sweat stung the corners of his eyes and ran down his face and his jaw muscles clenched in frustration.

It was their second day trekking out in the boonies, and as the A-Team left the more populated Mekong River floodplain and struck out in a northwesterly direction, the old Australian imports, huge stands of eucalyptus, acacia, and casuarinas trees quickly gave way to smaller native trees, thick brush, rattan, bamboo thickets, and chest-high elephant grasses. The Australian trees had been planted on the outskirts of cities and towns for lumber and firewood value, but past these, out beyond the valleys and flat lands of the delta, there were only scattered farming hamlets and small patches of cultivated fields and everything seemed smaller, less significant. The tiny communities, shimmering in the heat and bounded by interconnected canals and ditches, looked lost and forlorn in the vast stretches of savanna.

As they forged deeper into the grassland, things continued to shrink. The stands of trees, brush, and bamboo became smaller and sparser, the razor-edged grasses shrank to waist-high and the relentless sun seared everything growing or moving on the desiccated land.

Usually he enjoyed the challenge of long-range reconnaissance patrols. Even with the discomforts of living off the land for days and weeks at a time, Lurrps pitted you, your training and your buddies against whatever the enemy could offer. To his mind, it was hardly a contest. The Special Forces were the best trained warriors in the world and the whole idea of a mobile, highly-skilled A-Team thrusting deep into the enemy’s backyard, doing what they’d set out to do and then returning; mission accomplished, was an adrenalin-rushing thrill—made him feel really alive.

Matter of fact, Barinelli thrived on everything military. He loved it so much, he often harbored guilt-feelings of disloyalty to his wife and kids whenever he was home for more than a few days at a stretch. Before the week was out, he’d be thinking about what was happening at the base, or out on maneuvers, or who was getting an assignment that he might have gotten, had he been there.

But not today. Today he was spooked. Nothing he could put his finger on, but a heavy sense of uneasiness was sloshing around in his gut.

Hey, man, It was Jackson Cosby, the other SFC, about ten paces behind, heat getting to you? It was stifling hot, had to be well over ninety degrees and the whole A-team was feeling it.

Without turning, Rick shook his head. Nope, he responded, out of the side of his mouth, Just this friggin’ grass.

That’s why it’s called, ‘wait a minute’ grass, Cosby said. Lets you take two steps while it wraps around your boots, then pulls you back one. When you been here awhile, you’ll get to know all this shit.

Screw the grass, Cos and screw the heat and screw you. I’ve been here before—as if you didn’t know. Rick answered with a

good-natured grimace. They’d been friends a long time, But at least it’s dry.

Dry? Cosby countered, encouraging the exchange. Rick’s body language had been bothered him and he knew Barinelli; a gutsy, rock-solid soldier, smart, tough and hell-on-wheels in a fight. If there was anything bothering Rick, it’d sure better be bothering him. They were deep in enemy territory without any cover except for the savanna grasses and anything that kept him from thinking about how many ways they could be unpleasantly surprised, was welcome, Shit. I’d rather it was monsoon season, he continued. Then you don’t have to worry about Charlie coming out of his ambush tunnels. Here near the river, they all get flooded out.

Rick glanced back, then quickly forward again, his eyes scanning 180 degrees. Yeah, but at least there’s no leeches this time of year. He hated those damned things. In his first tour in ‘Nam, two years ago, he’d been out humping the boonies during rainy season up in III corps and came in with those worm-like suckers all over him. No matter how quickly he’d put a cigarette to the ones he could see and feel, there were always more, slithering into every opening in his fatigues, clamping onto his skin and sucking away on his blood. He shuddered, thinking about it.

He shook his head and scanned the area to his front and flanks. Looks like the point will be reaching the trees in a few minutes. Holding his Car-15 in the crook of his arm, he adjusted his knife sheath to a more comfortable position in back of his hip, pulled off his boonie-hat and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. His hair, normally white-blonde in color, was matted, the moisture making it appear gray. His tiger shirt and pants were black with perspiration, and sweat stains had merged with the black horizontal stripes and spread until the tiger suit looked more like the solid black, VC pajama uniform than anything else. To top it off, the gnats and fleas, circling his head and eyes, were driving him crazy. Damn it to hell, he muttered and trotted up to the CO. Captain, he said.

What is it? Chambers asked.

I don’t know, Sir, but I’d feel better if we put a second point in back of Griz and let him walk out a little more and then use Holstrom and Schultz on the flanks. Or, hell, I could take a flank and let Cosby drop back a bit to cover the rear. We’re just in too tight.

Chambers was a greenhorn. This was his first combat assignment and he wanted to do it right; get his tour finished successfully and maybe put in for Pentagon duty next. A combat command could do a lot for his career. But, for all that, he was part of Special Forces now and wanted this tour to be a good one. He peered at Barinelli, then back down to the trampled grass and continued walking. The sergeant was older than him, he knew, and had a hell of a lot of combat experience. In his mind, it was still hard to equate the competent, quick-minded SFC with highly-decorated service in the Korean War; ancient history to him, but well chronicled in Barinelli’s 201 file. He’d best not ignore the warning out of hand.

Chambers whistled softly and First Lieutenant Brad Meachum, the second in command, ten paces ahead, glanced back. Both officers were wearing their green berets while the rest of the team wore bush or cowboy hats; other than that there were no distinguishing marks of rank, no names and no dog tags.

Meachum held up his hand, turned to the front and hissed out, Hey! When the soldier ahead looked back, Meachum said, Hold in place. Pass the word up to Grzybinski.

The 12-man A-team, faces well greased in dark-green camouflage paint with black streaks layered at intervals and in sweat-stained fatigues, was now motionless, the men probably wondering why they were standing in the hot sun, carrying their rucks and rifles, instead of continuing on into the jungle cover where at least there’d be some shade. But this was Special Forces; no questions, no grumbling, all senses on high alert.

Meachum and Cosby joined the captain and Rick in the middle of the file. Go ahead, Sergeant, Chambers said, make your case.

Sir, Rick began, I think we should spread the team; a slackman walking in back of the point, then two flankers—

You got some specific reason? Meachum cut in.

No, Sir, Rick admitted.

Captain, Meachum said, swiveling his head around, it’d make sense if we had more of this terrain to cover, but hell, another minute or two, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, we’ll be in the woods.

Chambers nodded. Yeah, and we don’t know anything about the trail ahead. He glanced at his watch. At 1200 hours, we’ll be in radio contact with our counterparts. That’s less than an hour from now and, if they’re on schedule, we’ll meet up and conduct a joint patrol over the border at Chau Duc. Now, I wouldn’t want any of the SVA to get trigger happy and shoot one of our guys just ‘cause he’s coming in from a flank. The C.O. glanced at each of them. Anything you want to add, Sergeant Cosby?

Khongxau, Cosby responded, No problem here, Sir.

Very well. However, if you don’t mind; I prefer you speak only English, O.K.?

Ah, yes, sir. He answered.

Once we’re under the trees, the captain continued, since our friends are somewhere up front, any trouble would most probably come from the rear. Chambers compressed his lips and hefted his Car-15. He’d been told that the 15 was good for close-in work, so he carried it rather than the M-16 rifle or a pistol; but he had yet to fire a shot in anger. No reflection, Barinelli, he said, but I think we’ll do the opposite. Brad, once we’re in, shorten the distance between the point and the rest of us. Barinelli and Cosby can stretch it out a little in the rear. Questions?

No Sir, Meachum responded. He turned on his heel to pass the word.

That’s all, sergeants. The captain said.

Cosby and Barinelli walked back to the last man in line. Sergeant Holstrom, my man! Cosby crowed, grinning, as he clapped the buck sergeant on the shoulder.

What trouble you got for me now, Cos?

Not me, man, Cosby answered, It’s all Barinelli’s fault.

No trouble, Eric, Rick broke in, When we get inside that jungle, Jackson will hang back a little and I’ll get to the rear of—

Shit you will, Cosby interrupted. Since I have time in grade on you, I’ll make the decisions. He grinned, the one gold tooth in front, gleaming in his black face. Eric, this guinea who looks like a kraut, Sergeant First Class Barinelli, will hang back a little from you and I, the great Cos, back even farther, will protect the lot of you from the rearmost rear—oops, here we go.

The A-team had penetrated the tree-line. As if someone pulled down a window shade; it was suddenly evening under the triple canopy of jungle and the darkness pooled like thick, old blood beneath their feet. Off the foot-path, heavy growth broken only by mammoth tree-root systems matted the ground and rose about waist-high. Then higher; huge fronds, some as big as the hood on a VW, nodded and drooped like the ears on an elephant, while more plants and shrubs twined themselves into a solid, green wall. Finally, well above everything else, a profusion of gnarled, top branches, tightly interlaced vines, and leaves completed the stifling enclosure. Down at eye-level, the dry smell of grasses baking into straw, so pervasive out in the savanna was instantly replaced by the moist, dank odor of fungus and rot and cast a sweaty, claustrophobic mood over them all.

It took a minute for their eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to deep gloom and they jerked their eyes from leaf to tree to vine, seeking to penetrate the impenetrable and trying to ignore the heightened sense of having just entered a menacing trap.

As they moved deeper, the muted sun overhead fitfully lightened small ovals of greenery in the rare spots where the canopy thinned. The trail degenerated into a damp, torturous, barely discernible line, twisting and turning around stumps and boulders, thick shrubs, and pot-holed ground. Like all the stretches of jungle in IV Corps area, this was home to venomous snakes and malarial mosquitoes, birds, pigs, and monkeys—all carrying one disease or another. Special Forces personnel had been inoculated against malaria and hepatitis. The gamma globulin shot for hepatitis, especially, felt like a square needle squirting molasses into the muscle. It left a welt on the ass and hurt for a week and the men hated getting it. But, in the infested boonies of ‘Nam, it was necessary, so they pissed and moaned and dropped their drawers. Dengue fever, tuberculosis and typhoid had no effective preventatives however, but were common enough to make the wary Green Berets avoid every animal and every insect-carrying leaf and branch that they could.

The smell of rich decay, putrid and troubling, filled Barinelli’s nostrils while the buzzing and crackling of myriad insects covered all other sounds. He wanted a cigarette; needed a cigarette, but that wasn’t possible. In the field, only a careless idiot—or one with a death wish—smoked.

He was still feeling prickly. Between the quick, downward glances to place his steps, his hunter’s eyes, ever restless, searched the thick walls of foliage enclosing them like a roofed cage. Carefully, he maintained his distance from Holstrom, and as he waited for Eric to get farther in front, tried to analyze his thinking. What the hell was the problem? If anything, the feeling of unease was getting stronger.

Barinelli; six feet tall, broad across the chest and shoulders and only a few pounds heavier than he had been fifteen years ago, could still hold his own with the younger guys who made up the elite Special Forces. His hair, platinum in shade, a gift from the German side of his family, elicited a lot of remarks, mostly starting off with, Pop or Gramps. He’d take the ribbing for a bit, but sooner rather than later, his Italian temper would flash and his penetrating stare, like a laser of blue arctic ice, would freeze the comedian in mid-sentence. Thin lips stretching into a humorless line above the cleft in his chin added to the overwhelming impression that only an idiot with a death-wish would insist on fucking with him.

This was his fourth patrol, but the first without indigenous personnel. In III and IV corps, the force multipliers were Serei or Krom or Hmong, working as scouts, interpreters, shooters, and guides. They hated all the Vietnamese, North and South alike, but they hated the Communist kind more and he fervently wished they had a few indigs now.

Holstrom was trotting back. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The captain’s made radio contact with the SVA Rangers and wants you and Cosby up for a confab. I’ll tell Cos and maintain the rear until you get back. He jogged past Barinelli.

Chambers surveyed his A-team’s leaders, First Lieutenant Meachum and the two SFCs, Barinelli and Cosby. I’ve just been in communication with Captain Ing, he reported. He’s the commander of the SVA force we’re to meet and he reports no hostile contacts. Gentlemen, it looks like a walk in the park.

Barinelli grunted and the captain glanced at him. Sergeant, he said, you’ve been tight-assed ever since we passed through the grassy area back there. What’s your problem?

I’m always tight-assed in Indian country, Sir, Barinelli responded, his face expressionless, Especially when somebody—anybody outside of S.F.—knows exactly where we are.

I’ve read your jacket, Sergeant, so I’m sure you’re just being overly cautious. His eyes flicked from one to the next. We have our mission and that mission is to conduct a joint intel patrol across the river just west of Chau Duc. We’ll be living with our counterparts for two, maybe three days, Chambers’ voice hardened as he continued, and its imperative we show them we value their abilities and treat them as equals; got that? He waited for assent from each of them. Good. Captain Ing says there are no hostiles around and I want him to know that we’re confident in his word. Now, he says we’re within two clicks of a good-sized clearing and they’ll wait for us on the far side. We’ll have Grzybinski walk a shortened point and everyone else will stay in close. Any questions? His eyes swung back to Barinelli.

You’re sure they’re our guys? Barinelli asked.

Chambers was clearly exasperated but held back a retort. Brusquely he nodded, Correct password and Ing is the commander I was told to meet, he answered. Do you have any other questions, Sergeant?

No, Sir.

Are you sure, Sergeant?

Yes, Sir!

By the time the point man had reached the clearing, the sun was straight up. He knelt on one knee and looked around, blinking his eyes in the full light. But there was nothing to see; no sounds at all and nothing in view beyond the waving, chest-high, elephant grasses. He held up his hand and waited.

Chambers elbowed past the stationary file and trotted up to the point man. What’s the holdup, Sergeant? He asked.

Don’t see nothin’, Sir.

You see the far side, don’t you? the captain responded. Get your ass in gear.

Yessir! Grzybinski got to his feet and began walking forward as Chambers pumped his arm for the rest of the team to close up and follow.

Three quarters of the way across, Barinelli’s mind started flashing behind his eyes like a neon sign, we’re in too close, too close, too God damn close! With all his senses screaming, he thought he saw—imagined he saw—movement in the grasses to his left that seemed to go counter to the faint breeze and immediately he squatted and froze, only his eyes moving, searching for anything suspicious. If it’s nothing, he thought, and I sound the alarm, the captain’llput my nuts in a noose. He glanced to the front. The team was still far enough away from the end of the clearing to give him time to investigate. He flattened on the ground, slipped out of his radio and ruck straps and began crawling

toward a point that would take him in back of where he thought he’d seen the disturbance. But, a split second later, they were all out of time.

CHAPTER 2

Like a hundred jack-hammers suddenly ripping the silence, the clearing erupted in a shocking, deadly crossfire of automatic weapons; the muzzle flashes and explosive, popping sounds of AK-47s stunning the Americans. Within twenty yards of the file, the enemy, in SVA Ranger uniforms leaped up from the thick grass at the front and flanks and poured in a torrent of automatic fire that cut down the A-team before it could get off a shot in return.

Grasping his Car-15 by the barrel, Barinelli lurched to his feet just as Cosby sped past, heading straight towards the enemy, his weapon chattering in a long burst. At the same moment, a few yards to his front, Rick glimpsed a VC rise up and aim his Kalashnikov at the hard-charging American. Barinelli took a quick step forward and caved in the man’s skull with a roundhouse blow from his rifle. The shock shattered the stock and he dropped the now useless 15.

But his buddy’s reprieve had been short lived. Before Rick could turn his head, Jackson Cosby had charged into a withering hail of bullets that jerked him like a puppet before pounding him into the ground.

Barinelli ducked below the grass line. Acrid smoke hung atop the grasses in the super-charged air, but he’d glimpsed another Charlie and this one was between him and a possible way out. His mouth so dry he couldn’t swallow; his heart hammering in his chest; he slid his knife out of its sheath and crawled towards the man just as multiple explosions shattered the air. They were throwing grenades into the dead and dying and Rick’s target had become mesmerized by the flashes, the concussions, and the body parts flying into the air.

He rose up behind the transfixed Cong who was now leaning on his weapon, grinning and giggling at the carnage and made sure it was the last sight he would ever see. Like a steel trap slamming shut, Rick’s left hand clamped across the man’s mouth while his right hand drove his knife deep into the kidneys. All in one movement, he yanked it back out and sliced across the man’s throat and carotid artery. Paralyzed, gurgling on his own blood, the sapper collapsed in a heap and Rick quickly squatted, re-sheathed his knife and began to duck-walk backwards.

But it was too late. He’d been spotted. To a rising chorus of yells, he sprang up, turned and ran for his life, sprinting back the way the team had come just minutes before. He heard the angry shouts, then the chattering fire of automatic weapons and the whining passage of bullets. Please God; he thought, AK-47s on full bore aren’t all that accurate; please God! He didn’t know whether that was true or just wishful thinking and he didn’t care. As he dodged and ducked through the high grass, he thought desperately, that God would know what he wanted.

Puffing and gasping for air, his heart racing, Rick reached the cover of jungle and slowed to a fast trot. His pants had been shredded by the razor-edged elephant grass and he felt the stinging of a hundred little cuts, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that he remember where the pitfalls were, avoid them and still make good time.

Sweat streamed down his face; his uniform was sodden and he willed away the first warning signs of fatigue as the shock and adrenalin-pumping fear began to wear down and the enormity of the bloody disaster rose up and hit him. Son of a bitch! The exclamation tore through his clenched jaws. Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! His fists punched the air and his voice rose and screamed out the last epithet, as a filming of tears suddenly blurring his vision.

God damn it; idiot! Think about it later, his mind warned him. Cool off. You ‘re no good to anyone this way. He wiped a hand across his eyes and concentrated on the ground beneath his feet. There was no shooting now and the sounds of pursuit were fading. He knew they’d never give up the chase this side of the border, but he was increasing the distance between him and them and right now he’d settle for that.

In a kind of rhythm now, running under control, he let his mind dwell on the ambush. There was a traitor somewhere, maybe a double-agent high up in Saigon. Surer than hell, they’d been set up. O.K., motherfucker, he thought, fanning a white-hot rage; feeling it replace the fear and layer over the beginning aches and cramps that were now affecting his body. I’m going to make it and then I’m coming to look for you; you rotten bastard. Count on it! Reluctantly, his mind conjured up the scene he’d just escaped. All dead. All massacred without a chance; eleven great