Linked: Book Two

By J E Lenoir

First, the nightmare, then the telegram almost convinced Kevin McClure that his friend, Nick Campos, died in the helicopter crash. But Kevin's dreams and visions said the medic was still alive, in dreadful pain, and in danger. Unable to sleep or make anyone believe him, Kevin falls into a dangerous spiral of guilt, alcohol, and drugs until his cousin, Lou, comes to his aid. Together they find a way to search for the one left behind.

Deep in the central highlands of South Viet Nam, by luck, fate, or divine intervention, Bac si Nick Campos survives, persevering against all odds, as he unknowingly haunts Sergeant McClure's dreams, meets Girl Who the Tigers Fear, and embarks upon the greatest and strangest adventure of his life.

Book two of the Linked series, Bac Si, the Vietnamese word for doctor or medic, further explores the LINK--that collection of mental gifts unique to the McClures of Clearwater, Colorado--and the true meaning of friendship.

The Linked series continues with Book Three: Angel, Book Four: Connections, Book Five: Family Secrets, and Book Six: Grayhorse, and--who knows?--maybe more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662487798

Book preview

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Linked

Book Two

J E Lenoir

Copyright © 2023 J E Lenoir

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-6624-8778-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8779-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

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

About the Author

Prologue

That first night home from the hospital, recovering from wounds suffered in Viet Nam, Kevin McClure fought a nightmare. He tossed, sweated, his breath hard and ragged.

The helicopter crashed, he fell, and there was fire above him.

Oh God! The fire. The vision was so real, so horrifying, that he began to fight, trying to escape the heat, and then he was falling.

His scream brought Molly awake, startled, and her touch jerked him toward consciousness but not fully out of the vision. He hit the floor. Pain in his side took his breath away as he doubled up, face against the braided rug, and struggled to regain control.

Colorado, he realized with relief. Not Viet Nam. I'm in Colorado. Home. He breathed deeply, reaching for calm.

Still weak, in pain from the barely healed injury, and terribly shaken by the dream, he fumbled for the packet of pain pills on the night table, tapped one into his palm, and swallowed it with the last bit of water in his glass.

Molly helped him back to bed, dragged the thick comforter over them, and they curled together. She soon drifted off again, but Kevin couldn't sleep, the panic response slow to wear off. He'd had any number of bad dreams over the years, but this one felt different, much too real, and that worried him.

He desperately needed to talk to Nick Campos.

Chapter 1

Nick Campos awoke to the high-pitched sound of screams and then an explosion that sent debris and thin trails of fire dropping down around him.

The helicopter! He fought to control his panic. Where's the helicopter?

Flames fell from the trees above him to the right, and now there were no yells, no cries, just the crackle of burning.

He tried to move, but the pain forced a thin scream from him. He stifled it, groaning, and lay still. Once the first shock wore off, he knew the agony might intensify. Could he bear what might come? What choice did he have?

The helicopter hung far up in the canopy, gutted by fire, black smoke roiling around it. Little flames of jet fuel still dripped from the wreckage, but most of the flammable liquid had burned away in the first big explosion. As Nick watched, the tight group of moisture-laden trees steamed, crackled, and then gave way as heat warped the frame of the Huey. He recoiled from the searing metal as the crumpled mass crashed to the jungle floor about twenty yards from him, flaring up briefly once more. A light rain began to fall, the drops of water hissing as they met and drowned the fire.

He'd been thrown clear.

The terrifying plunge through leaves and limbs had landed him here in a tangle of vines and thick brush, which was probably softer than the ground but damned uncomfortable all the same. He was cut, scraped, bruised, jabbed, and battered. He recognized the agony of broken bones and the dreadful coldness of shock. He was in real trouble, but his mind, for now, was still clear. If he could stay conscious, perhaps he might find a way to help himself.

One good thing, he thought, since the monsoons started: I won't have to go without water and that drippin' fuel won't set fire to this damned soggy jungle. I'd rather drown than be fried. Of course, broken bones, exposure, internal injuries—they'll probably get me first. I've got to move before I stiffen up, or I'll be too weak to move at all.

He could see his right leg held up by the tangle of vines, the source of his worst pain. It had broken ugly, bleeding where his splintered shinbone tore through the skin about two inches above the top of his jungle boot.

Damn. Unless somebody finds me soon, I'll end up losing my leg, he thought in despair, then laughed at himself. I can't even get myself out of this pile of leaves. What am I worrying about tomorrow for? The VC, NVA, or whoever shot us down will be crawling all over this place soon. They'll take care of that damned tomorrow business.

He analyzed his condition.

Left shoulder hurts real bad. Dislocated, I think. Busted ribs, maybe. Bruised, for sure. Could be I'm not quite as mortally injured as I feel. Guess that just means I'll take longer to die. Is that good or bad? What'll they do to me before they kill me?

He tried again to move but was trapped in the snarl of undergrowth. The dreadful pain in his leg and shoulder made him nauseous. He was so weak, and even the smallest push or pull sent his battered muscles into spasms. Escape was impossible, so he just closed his eyes and waited. This situation, he realized, could have no good outcome. Nick resigned himself to the fact that he'd be dead soon and put his fate in God's hands because there was nothing more he could do.

Time passed—minutes? An hour? Nick had lost track—and the misty rain became much harder as the predicted storms approached.

He heard voices as the enemy came toward him, Vietnamese voices, not even attempting to be stealthy, so he lay very still. Maybe they'd pass by and not see him if he made no noise. He preferred to die quietly here alone, not by their hands. Or if they missed me, he thought, his mind full of ifs. If I can find help…

They're unhappy. Nick heard only a few words distinctly enough to recognize, but displeasure was evident in the timber of their voices.

Too bad, boys, he thought. You hoped for something from the wreckage, but all that's left is one cracked-up medic too damn near dead to be worth your bother. Just run along now.

Trees and grass thrashed violently as the monsoon winds picked up and hard-driven sheets of rain soaked the searchers. They argued. Some wanted to leave, but one voice, deep and commanding, ordered them to keep searching. As they prowled the burned-out, rapidly cooling wreckage, Nick heard them gleefully count the charred remains of the hated Americans.

His heart pounded as he prayed for them to leave. I wonder whatever happened to the monkey skull? he thought crazily and suddenly wanted to cry for the laughing men whose lives had ended so abruptly.

A hard burst of wind caught at the brush of his hiding place, and Nick clenched his teeth to stop a scream as the violent pitch tossed him up and down, awakening all his pain.

If the bastards find me, he thought as his agony grew in intensity, they'll kill me for sure. But as bad as I hurt, maybe that's for the best.

*****

Nick hadn't recognized the men who shared the helicopter—most were from other platoons—but knew they were young. He was young, too, but after months of dealing with the illness, injury, and death of men in his outfit, he felt indescribably old. This break was badly needed.

The soldiers loaded, happy to be on leave, exchanged names, gave each other exaggerated accounts of their last battles, and shared their wild expectations for this short journey to civilization. Normal conversation was soon drowned in the escalating noise of the rotors, but that didn't stop them from yelling. One young man pulled a monkey skull from a bag and moved the jaw like a ventriloquist's dummy. Who knew what it said? They couldn't hear a thing, but they thought it outrageously funny anyhow.

Nick laughed with them and sometimes at them. They were probably the best of their outfits—almost had to be to get put in for one of the elusive privileges—pulled off the line, orders for three-day leaves burning a hole in their pockets, none willing to waste another instant in camp when they could hitch a ride on a fast Huey and leave the war behind for a while. Nick felt the same. Throw on your cleanest uniform and run. The boisterous clubs, gaiety and girls of Vung Tau, the Army's proclaimed favorite in-country getaway spot, awaited them on the seacoast south of Saigon, just a few hours away at the Huey's 125-miles-per-hour cruising speed. He'd been there once and thought the boys might be disappointed. Vung Tau was not nearly as wild as their fevered imaginations built it up to be. But still, it was a damned fine place.

Campos looked forward to clean beds, real showers, a better quality of alcohol, steaks, music and dancing, more drinks, and playing in the ocean. He'd grown up in North Texas cattle country. The dream of all his classmates was to go to the beach. He'd made it there once, and it was an experience he longed to repeat. And although his first trip was a bust as far as female companionship, he'd talked with some older, more experienced NCOs and discovered that even though most women in Vung Tau were on pretty short leashes, there were ways to contact some who might be—well—less restrained.

What would Papa have said, Nick wondered, seeing his youngest son set out so purposefully on a mission to commit a sin—maybe several, depending on time and funds? But he knew his father would've laughed, then told him to stay sober and carry protection. Once, when Nick was nearly grown, in a rare conversation about home and family, Nick's father confided that although the church preached against birth control, he personally disagreed with that doctrine quite rigorously. He actually disagreed with quite a few, so although Nick's mother took Nick and his siblings to Mass, his father rarely attended. Five heathen children were more than enough, in Eddy's opinion, and it was too hard on Carmen, Nick's mother, to have more. But neither he nor Carmen—his sweet little Chiquita, he often called her—was ready to sleep apart. Nick's father often proclaimed that love was God's finest creation.

At some point in his life, possibly around the time he learned about sex, Nick was constantly embarrassed by his parents' overt affection, but as he matured, he realized just how lucky he was to live in a house where there was so much love. His father was gruff with him at times—Lord knew he'd given the old man cause—but what father and son didn't butt heads? It was part of growing up.

Nick squared off against his older brothers, too, and drove his sisters half crazy, picking on them and flirting with their girlfriends. Nick was the youngest—a dedicated clown, smart-ass, and (he admitted) spoiled brat—but oh, how he could make those girls giggle! (High school girls. Older women. God, how he loved to flirt!) And even though Nick knew the whole wild bunch of them nearly drove their parents crazy, through it all, he and his siblings were always aware that they were much loved. Few others Nick knew growing up—classmates and friends—were so lucky.

His father, Eduardo Campos, had been a cowboy from the time he was old enough to make a hand back in the early days of the twentieth century. He'd tended herds, roped and branded calves, doctored any critter that needed doctoring, and mended miles of barbed wire fences—his main transportation being horseback. A bit too young for the First World War, Eddy worked cattle and horses for many different outfits, surviving the hard times of the Dust Bowl and the Depression as he drifted through the Southwest. He'd had many wild adventures of his own, but after he met and married Carmen, he settled down near his old home in Texas to raise his family. From then on, he'd lived on that same ranch, where he knew every aspect of running the outfit, from cleaning stalls to keeping the books. An avid reader—the joke in the family was that Eddy always had at least one book in his saddle bag and sometimes two—he'd educated himself quite well, even though he had no diploma to hang on the wall. But though always complimented for his excellent work, he was never moved up to foreman. Too dark and too much Mexican, Nick always suspected, although none of his family had lived in Mexico for generations. They'd been Texans before Texas was Texas, according to family lore, and it griped Nick to think his father's value wasn't recognized.

But Eddy took it in stride. For his children, he had much larger ambitions. He pushed them to excel in all their classes, helped them apply for financial aid and grants, saved to get them started in college, and took on extra jobs to keep them there. Maybe, Nick often thought, too many extra jobs. But then all of them worked hard, hoping for a brighter future.

Too bad it had taken the old man's death and life insurance money to see that dream of education for Nick achieved, but those funds, plus scholarships, sent Nick off to college for several years. His father died just as their relationship was changing from stern, aging father versus wild, rebellious teenage son to that of two adult men who stood on more or less equal terms, now able to talk about anything and become friends. Nick loved his father, cursed him, fought with him, laughed at his terrible jokes, and tried hard not to cry when they buried him—Papa would've told him to buck up, be macho—but he had cried, just as hard as his mother and sisters. He missed the old devil.

Nick hadn't thought all that much about the draft when he decided to take a break from school. He knew it was possible he'd be called up, but like so many, in denial, he just didn't think it would happen to him. There were so many other guys the government could choose from, weren't there?

His mother had been very sick, which took a huge chunk of their funds. Then his sister, the one just older than him, wrecked their mother's car, which she should not have been driving since Speedy Sophia had lost her license for breaking the speed limit one time too many. After fines, towing, and repair, the financial cookie jar was almost empty, so Nick took a break from his classes and went to work to help catch up the bills. His school must've reported that he was no longer enrolled, and with his student deferment rescinded, he became fair game for the draft board. Not enrolled in school, not married, not the sole support of his family (both his older sisters worked), not the only son (his older brothers had families now in Arizona and California), Nick Campos became property of the United States Army.

He hadn't liked it at the time and still might get himself a bit riled up if he tried, but hell—that was too much trouble. As his friend Sergeant Mac, Kevin McClure, always said, "It is what it is, so make the best of it," and so he was. As a medic this past year, the field experience he'd gained might've taken ten years back in the States, even in a busy emergency room. Hands-on experience, plus certifications, plus his GI Bill money was just about everything he needed to finish school and start a successful career.

*****

It was mid-July, hot as Hades, the humidity making even dry clothing feel wet, and as they took off, rain threatened again. Severe tropical storms were headed their way, the pilots reported, might even build into a typhoon, but they'd be past them as they went further south. Nick felt the tempest brewing, the way he did back home, although the towering thunderheads were blocked from his view by the wet season's ever-present cloud cover. There was a sense of expectation, the air dead calm as if waiting. That air itself was almost too wet to breathe, but as he ran to claim his seat, it was better near the chopper. No dust today—too muddy—so he appreciated the moving breeze from the rotors.

The last to arrive, Nick tucked his small bag into a secure spot and wedged himself into a seat between two larger men, strapping on the harness. Hey, Doc! someone shouted, clapping him on the shoulder, and then other voices were raised in welcome. Glad to have you aboard. Hey, guys! Lookie here! Got our own sawbones! Nick had grinned, nodding in acknowledgment.

The Huey was at capacity, and soon—feeling claustrophobic—Nick unstrapped himself, to the relief of the big men on either side of him. He found a comfortable perch in the doorway, dangled a leg into space, and anchored himself to a handhold on the frame, his preferred way to fly. With the fine mist and air blowing on him, the temperature wasn't too unpleasant, so unless someone ordered him back into a seat, Nick decided to ride there all the way.

As they flew south, Nick thought about his friends, Lou Aguilar and Kevin McClure, who had declared him their blood brother. Until he met them, he'd imagined the blood brother idea as rather juvenile—something inspired by Wild West, Lone Ranger-type adventure novels—but not now. There was nothing childish between the two of them, or as they meant it toward him. He hoped they were recovering all right. Both had been injured in the big operation in May—right on, and sometimes quite a bit over, the Cambodian border—when they were only days away from their DEROS (date of expected return from overseas). Lou and Kevin, a couple of years younger than Nick, had just turned twenty-one the month before they were hurt, and Nick worried about them. According to usual procedure, they should've been pulled off field duty at least a week earlier, given jobs around camp as they got ready to leave for the States. Someone, damn their souls, Nick thought, was behind on the paperwork or sloppy or too damned lazy to send it at the right time. And then after it was all over, there the papers were, just waiting for them, only a week late. Bastards. Nick was still pissed about that.

Aguilar was hit in the back of his leg, had a graze across his hip, and that odd wound to his face. Nick could only conclude that Lou's mouth had been open since the bullet mostly missed his tongue, just hit his bottom teeth, and went out the right cheek. When Kevin took the injured Lou off into the jungle that day, Nick, heartsick, thought they were goners, but they'd made it to the rendezvous point—a miracle in itself—and faster than Nick ever thought possible. Kevin had even stitched Lou up and done a fair job of it. Lou would have some scars, but Nick felt sure he would come out okay. Kevin, on the other hand, had taken an AK-47 round in his back, just above waist level, while they were loading Lou onto the Huey, and Nick still couldn't believe that Mac hadn't died. The bullet hit his web belt and broke apart, but somehow, the pieces missed the biggest major blood vessels, even though one piece clipped a kidney, and one nipped his spleen hard, and some of his guts got pretty scrambled up by the rest. The exit wound was terrible, and Nick shuddered to think of what he'd done on that flight to keep his friend alive. They'd brought medical supplies along on that rescue mission, knowing Lou was hurt but hadn't been ready for anything as major as Kevin's injuries. He doubted either Lou or Kevin remembered. Both were barely conscious, and Nick wasn't about to tell them what he was doing. While Theo clamped other bleeders, Nick had reached inside the ugly hole in Kevin's side to hold pressure on the splenic artery until they reached the base. There the doctors removed Kevin's spleen, several pieces of small intestine, repaired what they could, and then crossed their fingers that all the holes were plugged well enough for Sergeant McClure to survive handoff to a larger medical facility for more operations.

Kevin had told Nick once that people around his part of Colorado, for several generations, still mentioned the luck of the McClures. When his grandfather and great-uncle were in their heyday, lucky as a McClure meant you were getting along mighty well. Nick hoped the family legacy would hold for Kevin. Mac had cheated death but surely must have used up whatever share of that luck was his.

The medic had tried to get leave over a month earlier when his friends were still at the hospital in Tokyo, but he'd already used his R & R out of the country—only one to a customer—and his services were needed in the field. The last he'd heard, Lou and Kevin were back in the States at a base hospital to finish their recuperation.

Aguilar, already discharged, had sent Nick a letter from Fort Carson in Colorado Springs after they arrived: Kevin's getting better, but he's sure taking a damn long time about it. Molly's here, too, holding Kevin's hand. We take turns visiting, whenever they let us. Also, Kev and I have discussed the fact that you're going to get cut loose soon, and we know you want to go home to see family and friends, but after you get all that done, we think you should get your happy ass over here to Clearwater, Colorado, at the earliest opportunity. If you're going to be a physician, we want you to get acquainted with Doc Claibourne, our old family doctor. He'll be ready to retire in a few years and might be looking for some talented younger Doc to step in. Colorado is a good place to live, after all—beautiful scenery, tall mountains, no booby traps, or people shooting at you—and Kevin has a really cute cousin you might like to meet. Nick laughed at that: Lou, real estate agent and amateur matchmaker. But for now, Lou complained, the hospital is boring, Kevin sleeps too much, that bevy of strippers you promised me when I woke up from surgery back in the field hospital hasn't caught up with me yet, and the drugs—well, I'm not getting any now, although Kevin has some that might pretty much do the trick. Anyhow, stay safe and come see us. We're in desperate need of entertainment.

Well, Nick thought, smiling, I miss them too. They were probably back home now, just lounging around, feet kicked up, beer in their hands, all ready for clean sheets, good food, and a better than even chance of getting laid. Sounded like heaven to him. He planned to send them a reply, maybe a postcard from the beach. Kevin would appreciate that. The only other time he'd made this wild trip to Vung Tau was with McClure when they and several others got some attaboy passes after a big, very successful offensive that September. Nick knew now the success was largely thanks to Mac's odd perceptive abilities, but at the time, Mac and he were barely acquainted, and McClure still kept those mysterious peculiarities a secret from him. They'd had fun on that short trip—talked a lot, drank a lot, and watched out for each other—but now, even alone, Nick still planned to have a fine time.

The helicopter flew high. It should have been out of the range of rifles, and any antiaircraft along their flight path belonged to the US or ARVN (Army of the Republic of Viet Nam)—in theory, at least. No one heard gunfire—who could hear anything over the roar of the engine?—but someone yelled as a silent bullet popped up through the bottom of the Huey. Another loud noise, close, then a horrible grinding issued from some essential mechanism and the motor went dead. The cessation of engine noise was terrifying, but after an instant, voices raised in alarm took its place.

The pilots kept her in the air as long as they could, autorotating as the Huey dropped toward the mountainous jungle. They alternately cursed and desperately prayed for a clearing, spotted one in the distance, but it was too far to reach. With a flap and clatter, something vital broke apart and the Huey began to twist.

There was chaos inside the aircraft. As Nick fought to keep himself anchored, hanging on to any straps or supports he could reach, he was slung first outward, then slammed back against the doorframe and skids. Unsecured items flew out the doors as the craft lurched and spun. Smoke poured out from somewhere underneath, choking Nick, then blew away as the craft turned in the wind. Panicked voices cursed and prayed. The young faces of its passengers were filled with terror as the Huey began to crash into the tops of the tall jungle trees.

Suddenly, Nick was airborne. He grabbed frantically at vines and tree limbs as he slammed through them, tearing hands and arms as he tried to slow his fall. He almost stopped himself once, but weight and momentum wrenched his shoulder out of socket, and he went plummeting down again.

The helicopter, not far away, crashed through and jammed itself between three huge trees about thirty feet above the ground. Fuel lines ruptured, and a terrifying explosion engulfed the screaming men still inside. Nick saw flames erupt above his head as his leg shattered against a big limb. Battered and broken from the fall, he tumbled into the tangle of vines and smaller growth below, the air whooshed from his lungs, and he blacked out.

He was only out for an instant.

He knew because as he awoke, he still heard the screams of men on fire, but those had soon ceased.

Now as the rain fell harder, Nick lay in the thick brush, straining to understand the words he heard spoken, watching the legs of the Viet Cong move past him as they searched the area. His pain was so bad that he prayed to lose consciousness. He wanted to scream but managed to stay silent, his mind still clear and sharp as a razor.

Get out of here, you sons of bitches, he thought desperately. Just let me finish dying in peace.

As they spotted him, their voices grow louder, excited, and Nick understood some of the words, but their speech was too fast for him to piece the conversations together. What did it matter? He no longer cared what they said. All he