Incident at Plei Soi (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 10) Page 3

  When O’Herlihy resumed his seat, Gerber said, “This is the same kind of nonsense we’ve been picking up for the past several weeks. Charlie and the NVA are on the move all over South Vietnam, not just in this one little corner north of Tay Ninh City. We’ve had that fight in the Hobo Woods. We’ve seen an increase in the traffic on the Trail suggesting a buildup. This is one more sign that something big is about to erupt.”

  Davidson nodded his agreement. “But right now we don’t want to participate in a fight.”

  Gerber felt white-hot anger flash through him. He wanted to leap to his feet and scream at these people, but he didn’t move, knowing his reaction would do little except get him removed from the conference and possibly MACV-SOG. He clenched his teeth and consciously forced himself to relax. Almost calmly he said, “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Captain,” said the general, “I know you’re aware of the political nature of the war. You can’t read the newspapers or magazines and not be aware of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gerber, speaking because he felt he had to say something. Anything.

  “Now we’re not in a fight where the freedom of democracy in the United States is at stake. Hell, if South Vietnam fell, what would it mean to us? That a third-rate nation that’s had a tradition of domination for hundreds of years would continue in that tradition. One segment of the population would be suppressing another segment. And if the Communists did take over, it would only mean that another Asian government’s fallen and the threat is still twelve thousand miles from home.”

  “Sir,” interrupted one of the colonels, “we’d also see several other countries in this region fall, not to mention the bloodbath that would surely take place as the Communists sought to eliminate all opposition.”

  Davidson waved a hand as if to dismiss the last few comments. “Doesn’t matter if all of Asia goes Communist, at least not to the average man in the street in downtown Peoria. All he’s concerned with is putting food on the table, watching TV and going bowling. A bunch of people twelve thousand miles away mean nothing to him.”

  “Granted,” said another colonel.

  “So what does all this mean? What does all this infiltration of enemy troops and supplies mean to that man in Peoria, worried about his rent check and the leaking oil pan? It means nothing to him until the news media gets on the air telling him that two or three hundred American boys died in this stink hole.”

  Gerber lowered his gaze and saw a single cigarette burn, a thick black line wriggling like a worm across the table. He knew what was coming next.

  “Captain Gerber,” said the general, “I want you and Sergeant Fetterman to fly out to this camp and look it over. I want you to determine whether we can, A, hold it against the enemy buildup, and B, if we should. If you decide that it isn’t worth the effort, I want you to make immediate plans to evacuate the troops and then tear it down, destroying everything that might be useful to the enemy.”

  “You sure about this, General?” asked Gerber.

  “Sure about it? Yes. I want a solid evaluation and a rational decision made. What I don’t want are pictures on the evening news of a burning, smoking camp with bodies in the wires and a list of fifteen or twenty Americans who died holding the damned place. It’s not worth it.”

  Gerber turned so that he could look at the general. His gaze drifted to the rows of ribbons that decorated the man’s left breast pocket. There were victory medals for World War II and campaign medals and citations for bravery. This was a man who had fought through the roughest of wars and been decorated for his participation. He was a man who knew how the soldier in the field felt and what the soldier in the field believed. He wasn’t the kind of chairborne commando that had been rising to command all too often in Vietnam. He was a man who knew the score. All of that was obvious from the rows of ribbons and the various skill badges he wore. Yet his instructions were as ridiculous as those given by other Saigon commanders.

  Davidson raked a hand through his hair. “Is there a problem, Captain?”

  “May I ask a question?” said Gerber.

  The general glanced at the other men. “We’re all friends here.” He grinned as he said it.

  “Then why don’t we either make a commitment to make a stand at this camp or order the withdrawal now? Why send us out to look over the situation?”

  “Good question,” said Davidson. “Let’s just say that I’m not happy with the intelligence we’re getting. I want someone to look over the situation and render an assessment that I can live with, someone whose opinion will be more informed than that of a big-assed staff officer from Saigon. It’s your call, either way, but I don’t want a major battle developing over that camp. If Charlie is going to attack it in force, I want it abandoned and destroyed before that attack can take place. This isn’t the right time for a full-scale battle.”

  Gerber looked back at Sergeant Fetterman. “Tony, you have any questions?”

  “Yes, sir. Just one. Why in hell are we working so hard to avoid a fight with the enemy? I thought that’s what we were here for in the first place.”

  The meeting broke up thirty minutes later, with Fetterman’s question still unanswered. Instead, each man provided some direction for the evaluation and let it go at that. The general then told Fetterman and Gerber that transportation would be available for them at Hotel Three at seven the next morning. He expected a report by three that same afternoon, not a final determination, but some kind of preliminary analysis.

  With that, they left. When they reached the jeep, Fetterman climbed into the driver’s side, unlocked the wheel and started the engine. For a moment he sat staring into the dark night and then asked, “You interested in a beer?”

  Gerber shook his head, thinking of Robin Morrow waiting for him at the hotel, and then changed his mind. “Yeah, I do want one. Hell, I’ll even buy.”

  “You have a preference as to the place?”

  “Lead on, Tony. I’ll trust your judgment.”

  Fetterman backed the jeep out and turned around. He drove to downtown Saigon, avoiding the dark streets because he was worried about snipers, and stopped in front of a bar with blaring music. There was an MP jeep parked in front of him. One of the men, his black helmet liner reflecting the bright lights, sat there watching the crowd.

  Fetterman locked his jeep again and climbed out. He stood on the street, watching the young GIs dance with the local girls. Their party, though noisy, seemed tame enough.

  Fetterman led Gerber into the smoke-filled bar, which was rocking with music. The walls seemed to vibrate. A single strobe flashed on the stage where a four-piece band belted out the latest rock hit with little enthusiasm and a girl wearing next to nothing danced to music that only she could hear.

  The place was jammed with shouting, dancing, singing soldiers who were drinking beer as fast as they could, while others were throwing up on the floor. Two were slumped against the wall, a beer held in each hand as they slept.

  “Nice place,” shouted Gerber, not sure that Fetterman could hear him.

  The master sergeant shouldered his way to the bar, managed to get two bottles of beer, then pushed his way clear. He handed one to Gerber, nodding in the direction of the door, but was intercepted by a huge black man who looked like an off-duty GI earning a little extra money as the bouncer. Fetterman handed the man some money and then escaped into the night where the temperature was at least thirty degrees cooler, hugging the low eighties.

  Once they were outside, Gerber wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to hear again. “What was that all about?”

  “Bottle, sir. They can’t get new bottles, and they’re so afraid of losing one that they watch them carefully. Guy didn’t want me to take it out. I told him we’d bring them back and then gave him five bucks.”

  Gerber took a drink and wanted to spit it out. It was the worst beer he had ever tasted. Fetterman, however, took a sip like a connoisseur tasting fine wine. He grinned at Gerber. “Ah, Tiger Piss. Aptly named.”

  “Tony, we could have gotten a good beer at the hotel. American beer or German beer. Anything but Vietnamese beer. For Christ’s sake, Tony.”

  “Yes, sir, and chanced running into Miss Morrow or one of her reporter cronies.”

  “I’m not convinced running into Miss Morrow would be so bad, unless you have something you want to talk about?”

  Fetterman moved back so that he could lean against the jeep. He took a drink. “Yes, sir. I’m getting a little tired of us avoiding a fight all the time. That seems to be the rule now. It’s as if the brass sees the war as a good thing. Full employment, lots of promotions and good money. Us enlisted pukes don’t have to pay income tax and you officer types get a big tax discount. It seems they believe that by fighting, we’re going to screw up a good thing.”

  Gerber took another pull at the beer and felt like spitting again. He agreed with Fetterman. “You have a point here?”

  “Suppose we get out there and find Charlie planning a big push on the camp. Now our orders are clear. We order everyone off the camp and destroy it. Again we go running from a fight.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “So what if we don’t find Charlie, and when they start storming the wire we say, ‘Well, hell, General, the buildup must have been in Cambodia where we couldn’t see it. They caught us all by surprise.’”

  Gerber finished the beer and set the bottle on the hood of the jeep. He watched a soldier guide his date toward a shadow and then slide his hand inside her blouse. As he watched, he saw that the hand was a diversion, getting her attention while the other worked on the zipper of her skirt.

  “You want to lie to the brass?”

  “No, sir. I want to seek out the enemy. We know he’s running around that camp. The evidence is there if those paper pushers want to see it. I’m just saying that we delay long enough for the enemy to hit the camp and then we’ll have to defend it or get killed.”

  Gerber hopped up on the fender of the jeep and studied the dirty cigarette-studded sidewalk. “You know, Tony, you’re always coming up with these wild-ass ideas that could get my ass in a sling. I seem to remember it was you who stumbled into that mess in the Hobo Woods while we were under orders not to engage in a full fight.”

  “Yes, sir, but it didn’t turn out all that bad.”

  “Colonel Bates might not agree with that.”

  Fetterman shrugged. “The colonel didn’t get into that much trouble. Hell, he’s in Okinawa.”

  “But his name isn’t on the list for general and might never be,” said Gerber. “That’s pretty stiff for someone who has made a career out of the military. Finishes his career just short of his ultimate goal.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but the colonel went along with us. Besides, after a couple of months, he might find himself on the list again.”

  Gerber shook his head. “Don’t be so sure. You don’t understand about those ringknockers. One of them doesn’t like you, they all don’t like you. A ringknocker wants to destroy you, he can usually do it.”

  “So you’re saying we’re not going to pursue this. We go out and find the enemy and close the camp.”

  “Now what in hell could I have said to give you that impression? I was only explaining the facts of life to you. Tomorrow we go check the situation, and if we can pull it off, we stay right there and let Charlie beat his brains out trying to overrun the damn place.”

  Fetterman clapped his hands together. “All right, Captain. That’s what I wanted to hear. I tell you what, I’ll buy us another beer apiece to celebrate.”

  “Does it have to be Tiger Piss? Can’t we just go over to the hotel and get a real one?”

  “Thought you liked to indulge yourself once in a while by seeing how the other half lives. Come down and wallow in the slime with the rest of the enlisted pukes.”

  “No, Tony. That’s not something I’ve ever said. Now let’s get over to the hotel and I’ll buy the beer. But only one.

  “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Don’t want to keep Miss Morrow waiting too long.”

  “Shut up, Master Sergeant. Just shut up.”

  CHAPTER 3

  HOTEL THREE, TAN SON NHUT, SAIGON

  Gerber stood in the terminal building housed underneath the control tower of Hotel Three and watched the rain coming down in heavy sheets. It was a freak storm, which, when it came up during the dry season, washed out roads and rice paddy dikes and destroyed mud-walled hootches and water buffalo pens. It was a rain that came down with a vengeance, striking the ground and bouncing high and even here, away from the jungle, it sounded like frying bacon.

  At his feet, away from the door and the rain, was his rucksack. There wasn’t much in it except for clean clothes and a shaving kit. Gerber didn’t expect to be in the field, and anything he needed other than his personal items could be obtained at the Special Forces camp. He also had a pistol belt, which held two canteens, a small first-aid kit and a holster with a Browning M-35 pistol.

  A shape materialized out of the gray ness of the rain and rushed the door. Fetterman appeared, the rainwater having soaked his uniform, turning it from OD green to black. He dropped his rucksack on the dirty concrete floor of the terminal and turned to look back the way he had come.

  “Christ, it’s a fucking monsoon out there. I can’t even see the gate.”

  Gerber moved closer. “It’s not a monsoon. Not yet anyway.”

  Fetterman unslung his weapon from across his shoulder and turned it upside down, pouring the rainwater from the barrel. “I hope we don’t find ourselves in a firefight before I get a chance to clean this.”

  “Where in hell did you get that thing?” asked Gerber. He reached out and touched the weapon, an old M-3 grease gun. The Army had declared it obsolete in 1957, and every time Fetterman showed up he had one. It was as if the master sergeant had a secret supply of them somewhere, close.

  Fetterman held it out as if he had seen it for the first time. “This?” Now he smiled slyly. “Well, we NCOs can find anything we want. This is a good weapon. It fires .45-caliber ammo, which means finding ammo isn’t a problem, and the cyclic rate of fire is slow enough that it doesn’t burn through the rounds the way the M-16 and M-60 do.”

  “Sergeant, I didn’t ask for a weapons class. I asked where in hell you keep getting all these M-3s? That can’t be the same one you had on our last tour.”

  “No, sir. That one’s gone, but more of them are around, if you know where to look. Got this from a friend over in the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division. If you’d like one, sir, I can probably scare up another.” He ignored the fact that there were a few SF weapons rooms around loaded with old, reliable and now sterile weapons.

  Gerber shook his head. “No, thanks anyway.”

  “Doesn’t look like we’re going to be flying out to anywhere for a while,” said Fetterman, studying the rain.

  “Yeah,” agreed Gerber. He turned and moved toward the counter where a bored sergeant sat reading a paperback novel. “Any coffee available?” he asked the man.

  “Pot over there. Help yourself.”

  “Tony? Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Gerber poured himself a cup and then dropped a lump of sugar into it. Normally he refused the sugar, but he didn’t know how long the coffee had been brewing and was afraid it would be like so much else in the Army — ruined by people who had no idea what they were doing, but were out there doing it as fast as they could anyway.

  Gerber stirred the coffee, thinking about the night before, after Fetterman had dropped him off at the hotel. As the master sergeant had driven off toward his quarters in the Tan Son Nhut, Gerber had gone upstairs. He had planned to call Robin and tell her that he wouldn’t be able to meet her that night, but when he’d entered his room, he’d found that she’d let herself in.

  Staring out the lightly fogged window of the terminal, Gerber remembered the sight vividly. Robin had been sitting on the bed, her back against the wall and a magazine in her lap. Her green silk dress had been folded neatly and set on the chair. She was wearing only panties, a garter belt and stockings. She turned and smiled as he entered. “What kept you?”

  Gerber rubbed his face and stared. Then he turned and locked the door. “You’ve been waiting?”

  She put the magazine aside. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, I might not have come back. You know how these Army missions work.”

  “Then I would have finally turned off the light and gone to sleep.”

  Gerber entered the room and sat down. With his eyes on Morrow, he untied his boots. He kicked them off, rubbed his feet, then stretched. He smiled at Morrow, thinking that she was not only smart, but she was good-looking. Her light blond hair framed her face. The light reflected from her sweat-damp skin.

  Morrow got to her feet and moved to Gerber. She stepped behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “Relax,” she said. “Just relax. We have all the time in the world.”

  Gerber grabbed her hand and kissed her palm. “I’m afraid we’ve only got a few hours.”

  She moved around in front of him and knelt, one hand on his knee. “A few hours?”

  “Don’t look so devastated. I’m only going out to one of the SF camps for a couple of days.”

  She reached up and began unbuttoning his jungle jacket. She pulled it open and rubbed his chest. “Only a few days, huh? I’ve heard that before.” She stood and pulled at him. “Come on, Mack. You have to cooperate.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “First, I think you should shower and shave…”

  “You telling me that I smell bad?” asked Gerber, grinning.