The Ville (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 9) Read online

  The door opened and a Marine sergeant, dressed in jungle fatigues and spit-shined boots, entered the room. The Marine was a big man with no visible neck. Although he had shaved that morning, his cheeks were blue-black with stubble, and thick eyebrows met over his nose. He had light-colored eyes and his head had been shaved. There were sweat stains under his arms, down the front of his shirt and around his waist, where his pistol belt had been.

  “You Bromhead?” asked the Marine.

  “Captain Bromhead, yes.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Nicholas Gilman. I was told to report to you in here.”

  Bromhead stood and realized that the Marine was two or three inches taller than he was, and at six-one, Bromhead wasn’t considered short. He stuck out his hand. “You were told to report to me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did they say what it was about?”

  “No, sir. Just said to find you in here and wait with you.”

  Bromhead picked up his Coke and drained it, then set the can on the table. “Well, this beats walking around in the jungle.”

  The door opened again and another sergeant entered. Directly behind him was an Army lieutenant colonel carrying a thick stack of folders. He kicked the door shut with his heel, dropped the files on the table and then switched on the slide projector.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m Colonel Petersen and will be working as your liaison officer here. This other gentleman is Sergeant David Hansen.”

  Hansen was smaller than Gilman and Bromhead. He was just under six feet tall with a slight build. His jungle fatigues were brand new as were his boots. There was no evidence that he had been outside in the past week. His face was neither tanned nor sunburned and he looked like a clerk who had escaped from the boring duty of typing morning reports and duty rosters. He sat on the opposite side of the table and said nothing to anyone.

  Petersen opened one of the folders, took out a number of aerial photographs and gave one each to Bromhead, Gilman and Hansen.

  “This small village is anti-Communist,” Petersen began. “It’s inhabited by an ethnic group known as the Meo. They’ve lived in the region for hundreds of years and are familiar with everything that goes on in it.”

  Petersen moved to the slide projector and picked up the remote control. He flashed through several of the slides that showed a village made of thatched hootches on stilts. Some of the scenes depicted people dressed in very little gathered around a cooking fire. Men chopping the heads off monkeys, a woman stirring a large black pot and children running wild.

  “Okay,” he said when he stopped. “That shows the natives at home and at work. From this point on, anything I say in this room is classified as secret. Is that understood?”

  Bromhead nodded and in unison the sergeants replied, “Yes, sir.”

  Petersen hit the remote control and a map of Southeast Asia appeared. He moved to the screen and picked up a pointer.

  “The village we saw is located right here in Laos. It is no more than ten or twelve klicks from a main trunk of the Ho Chi Minh Trail north and east of Ban Tasseing.”

  He let the words sink in and then snapped off the projector lamp, leaving the fan motor running. Taking a seat at the head of the table, he opened the top folder. “Now, what we have determined, studying the old records from the French paras, is that the men of the village have received some military instruction. There are approximately seventy military-age males available there, and another two hundred and eighty in villages no more than seven klicks away.”

  The colonel studied each man’s face in turn. “Since the name of the game is going to be Vietnamization, or in this case Laoization, we’re going to put a team into the area to raise a strike battalion with an eye on interdicting the traffic on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. By the way, this plan for Vietnamization is not yet a matter of public record, so let’s keep it under our hats.”

  Bromhead glanced at the men with him. A Marine NCO and an Air Force sergeant. He twisted the aerial photo around and stared at it. It was little more than a black and white map of the area.

  “Handled properly, this could slow the traffic on the Trail to a trickle and relieve a number of units of their duty on the border in South Vietnam.”

  “Isn’t this a MACV-SOG project? I mean, isn’t this the kind of thing they’re trained to do?”

  “You’re right there,” Petersen replied. “But with the new demands on people with a Special Forces background for a wide variety of missions, the Special Forces are strapped to complete the missions they already have. Captain Bromhead, you’ve already been in the area and worked with a number of the locals. That puts you one up on most of the people. Sergeant Gilman was unfortunate enough to go to the Marine Corps language school and is conversant in the Meo dialect. Since we wanted to keep the nature of the mission as integrated as possible, meaning we wanted someone from the Air Force involved, too, we recruited Sergeant Hansen. His own specialty is in organizing and training local populations in guerrilla warfare as it relates to airfield defense. Also, he has an expert knowledge of the radio and a fluency in French.”

  “Where?” asked Bromhead.

  “If you’re worried about me,” said Hansen, his voice high and squeaky, “I’ve worked with the British SAS in Malaysia and with the Special Forces in both Cambodia and South Vietnam.”

  “No,” said Bromhead. “I just wondered where you’ve been training those people.”

  “It’s a program that’s just getting under way.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Bromhead.

  “These people, these Meos, they know we’re coming?” asked Gilman.

  Petersen waded through the folder as if looking for the answer to the question. “Given the high concentration of enemy soldiers in the area, we thought it best to go in cold—”

  “Colonel Petersen,” interrupted Bromhead. “Why not let me put this together with my team. I’ve a couple of good men with real experience in this…”

  “But they aren’t conversant in the native language.”

  “No, sir, they aren’t, but I know of a Nung tribesman who can speak that language and English. Sergeant Krung could handle the translating duties.”

  “I’m sorry.” Petersen shook his head. “But the team has already been determined and their backgrounds have already been checked.”

  “My men all have the appropriate clearances.”

  “What about this Sergeant Krung? I trust his background hasn’t been checked to the same degree.”

  “Maybe not, but I trust him and in the end, it’s my life that’s on the line.”

  Petersen made a show of considering Bromhead’s proposal and then shook his head. “No. This is set up for now. No time to change.”

  “I can have my men ready to go in the morning,” insisted Bromhead.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but we’ve already stripped too many of the A-Detachments. I don’t want to take any more men out of the camps if I can help it. We have trained people available, we have them in place and I think we’ll go with the team we have assembled here.”

  Bromhead was going to press further, but then realized that Petersen’s next move would be to make it an order, stopping all debate. There was no sense going to that extreme now, since it would do no good.

  Changing the direction of the conversation again, Bromhead said, “How do we know these people will support us?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Petersen. “The Viet Cong have been working that area for years. The Viet Minh before that. Their demands for taxes and their forced recruitment of the young men and women have not endeared them. Besides, there’s a traditional animosity between the Meos and the lowland Vietnamese. Hell, the Vietnamese have persecuted these people for centuries. Give them an excuse to kill Vietnamese, they’ll take it.”

  Bromhead shook his head. “That still hasn’t answered the question. How do we know that these people will support us?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss all
the details of the preliminary recon. Suffice it to say that the question was asked at the proper time and in the proper place. The people there will support us.”

  “When was the last time anyone was there?” asked Gilman. “And what equipment do the natives have?”

  “The recent recons suggest that they have nothing other than a few primitive firearms and their homemade weapons.”

  Bromhead shook his head. “This just isn’t going to work. It’d take weeks, if not months, to put together a fighting force out of the tribesmen. We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “You’ll have all the time you need,” said Petersen. “Once you’re established in the village, you can proceed with the training at your own pace. You’ll be on your own to establish your schedule.”

  “Colonel, I have a camp of my own. There are things there that have to be done. I can’t be running all over Southeast Asia.”

  Petersen closed his folder and folded his hands. “You have an executive officer there, Lieutenant Mildebrandt. Isn’t he capable of running the camp in your absence?”

  “Of course,” said Bromhead. “He’ll do an excellent job, but it’s not his to do. It’s mine.”

  “Then consider this mission to be your new job for the time being.” Petersen’s face was impassive. “Unless you’ve misled me about Lieutenant Mildebrandt’s ability. If that’s the case, I can get someone else in there.”

  Bromhead realized that he had been outmaneuvered again. He fell silent.

  “We’ll need equipment and supplies,” said Hansen, filling the silence. “I don’t see any airfields around there.”

  “Initial insertion will be by helicopter. You’ll take in just enough to get started. Some weapons so that you can mount the guard and organize the first-strike companies. You’ll want to get an airstrip established that will take an Otter.”

  “Jesus,” said Gilman.

  “The Special Forces do this all the time. It’s an offshoot of the strategic hamlet concept. We just want to expand it outward, cover more ground.”

  Petersen then went on to explain the plan a second time. Each man had been selected because of his background so that no special training was needed. All they had to do were the jobs they had been trained to do. It was just one more assignment for them. Contact would be maintained and if the situation warranted it, they could be pulled out.

  “Your only instruction is not to get captured. Although you’ll be working for our government, you won’t be wearing any U.S. insignia and all the weapons will be sterile. This will be a covert operation.”

  “Do we have a choice in the matter?” asked Gilman.

  “Certainly, Sergeant. You’re free to refuse the mission, remembering, of course, that your refusal will be noted in your 201 File.” Petersen flashed a grin, devoid of mirth.

  “When do we start?” Bromhead’s shoulders drooped resignedly.

  “Airlift will be available tomorrow afternoon. Insertion will be just before dawn the following day. You’ll be responsible for making contact with the villagers and enlisting their aid. Anything else?”

  “Neither of the men here has been described as a medic. You have one assigned?”

  “This is a covert mission and we don’t want to drop a lot of people into it who aren’t needed.”

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” said Bromhead, “but a medic is not someone who only adds to the complexity of the mission. He is an essential part of it. The Special Forces doesn’t send a team out without one. Hell, sir, we’ve gone out with surgeons.”

  “There isn’t a medic available.”

  “I can rustle one up quickly. It won’t be a problem.”

  Petersen made a show of searching through his file folders. “I’ll make the arrangements for a medic. I’ve a couple of names here. I’ll have one of them meet us at Bien Hoa in the morning. Okay?”

  “That’ll be fine, Colonel,” said Bromhead.

  Petersen’s gaze rested on each man. “Now, are there any other questions before we adjourn?”

  A hundred additional questions sprang to mind, but all Bromhead said was, “We’ll need maps to get into the area. And the equipment.”

  “All being arranged. You’ll have a final briefing tomorrow just before you take off. Report back here at noon.” Petersen shook his head. “We were going to hold you incommunicado but decided that it wasn’t necessary. Don’t talk about this to anyone. Until tomorrow at noon, you’re free to do what you want. Buy a steak, drink, but be ready on time.”

  Bromhead spent the first part of the afternoon alone and then headed over to the Carasel Hotel hoping to find either Gerber or Fetterman or with luck, both. He walked through the lobby, a cavernous structure containing a dozen chairs, a half dozen couches and numerous tables that looked as if they had been stolen over several decades and from different parts of the world.

  He exited, passing through French doors and out onto the open-air bar. For a moment he stood there, surveying the crowd. There were civilians, most of them working for the various media or at the embassy, and a scattering of military types in jungle fatigues and khakis. Bright sunlight hid some of them. Bromhead heard a laugh that sounded like breaking crystal. He recognized the voice immediately.

  He glanced to the rear of the bar, saw Fetterman, Gerber, and finally Robin Morrow. He shouldered his way between two male reporters, one of them wearing a safari jacket. Bromhead reached the table and grabbed a vacant chair without waiting for an invitation.

  As he dropped into it, Anthony Fetterman, a small, wiry man with balding, wavy black hair and dark, almost olive complexion, glanced at him. On his first tour, Fetterman had been the team sergeant of the A-Detachment where Bromhead worked. “Johnny. It’s good to see you.”

  Mack Gerber, a tall, thin officer with brown hair and blue eyes, held a hand across the table. He was the detachment commander. “Good to see you.” He then turned to Fetterman. “Calls himself Jack now instead of Johnny.”

  Robin Morrow turned so that she was facing him. Her long, brown hair was cut with bangs that brushed her green eyes. She smiled at him, the perspiration from the humidity beading on her lip. “Jack, huh? I like that.”

  “Thought it was better for the team leader to be known as Jack.”

  “So, Johnny, ah, Jack, can I interest you in a drink?”

  “Of course, Captain. I’m always in the mood for a drink.”

  Gerber beckoned the waitress, a Vietnamese woman in a skimpy costume that didn’t seem to keep her cool. He ordered a round. Robin leaned on the table, cupping her chin in one hand. “What brings you to Saigon?”

  Bromhead glanced furtively right and left before answering, more concerned about Morrow than Gerber and Fetterman. Morrow, as a journalist, was always looking for a story and his later mission would make a great one. “That’s a question I can’t answer. High-level briefing and then I’m off again.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Fetterman. He grinned and added, “You sound like you just escaped from a second-rate spy thriller. High-level briefing.”

  “It’s true,” protested Bromhead, and then laughed as he realized Fetterman was baiting him.

  “You can tell your old friendly sergeant,” said Fetterman. “I know all anyway.”

  Bromhead shot another glance at Morrow but said nothing. He was saved when the drinks arrived.

  Gerber picked up the ball then and said, “You here for a while or you heading back to your camp?”

  “I’m here overnight and then off in the morning for a briefing. I won’t be at the camp for a while.” As he said it, he wondered if he was giving too much away, especially in front of Morrow, but decided that he had to say something. Either Gerber or Fetterman could make a single inquiry and find out that he wasn’t at the camp.

  “So you’ll be going into the field.” Morrow was still trying to pump him for information.

  Gerber caught the pained look on Bromhead’s face. He knew the young captain didn’t want to lie to Morrow so he jumped in again
. “Robin, you have plans for dinner tonight or are you heading back to the office?”

  “You offering to buy me dinner, Mack, or are you just trying to divert my attention?” She grinned at him.

  “I didn’t think I was that transparent. Of course I’m trying to divert the conversation, but if I have to buy you dinner to do it, then consider it done.”

  “And during dinner I can’t ask about Johnny’s, rather, Jack’s, mission?”

  “Of course you can, but he gets to lie about it. He can make up all kinds of strange stories and you have to believe them, at least for tonight.”

  “I find your ground rules for the free dinner acceptable.” Morrow laughed, showing perfect teeth. She liked the company of these men.

  Gerber glanced at his watch. It was not the cheap, camouflage-covered one that he normally wore, but an expensive Seiko with the Special Forces crest engraved in the face. “I make it about seventeen hundred. An hour to get cleaned up and then meet in the lobby. From there we can decide where to go for dinner.”

  Morrow slid her chair back and stood. “I’ll go to the room first and get changed. You can meet me there in a few minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  She turned and made her way through the crowd, each of the men at the table watching her retreat, the hem of her short skirt dancing around her shapely legs. They could see the perspiration dampening her blouse down the back so that the material was nearly invisible and the thin line of her bra showed through plainly.

  When she disappeared, Bromhead turned to Gerber. “She staying in the hotel?”

  Gerber didn’t respond, but Fetterman did. He smiled evilly. “Our captain has himself a roommate.”

  “Oh?” said Bromhead. “What about Karen?”

  Again it was Fetterman who answered. “I think Karen cut her own throat with our captain.”

  “If you two are through discussing my sex life and relationships, I think we could move on to more important things, like dinner.” He reached into his pocket for a handful of change.

  “We should take Jack out and get him drunk,” said Fetterman.

  “A good plan.” Gerber dropped his coins on the table, saw that one of them wasn’t money, but a silver-dollar-sized token with the Trojan Horse on it that he carried for luck. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. “Any place you want to go?”