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

  “Just where they have loud music, beer, and women dancing.”

  Fetterman said, “Then it’s decided. I know just the place. Shall we adjourn?”

  They spent the evening in various clubs drinking beer with Bromhead chasing women, none of whom he caught. At one point they ordered massive steak dinners with everything including the baked potato because they figured it would be a long time before Bromhead got the chance to eat that well again. By two they were tired and headed back to the BOQ at Tan Son Nhut to drop off Bromhead. He stood watching the lights of the jeep as they drove away.

  The next morning slightly hung over, he got dressed and went to find breakfast. By noon he was back at the MACV Headquarters and waiting for his instructions. He was joined by Hansen and Gilman and the three of them were given new uniforms that contained no U.S. insignia, weapons that looked like leftovers from the Second World War and several duffel bags full of equipment that could not be directly traced to the United States.

  After another briefing that provided little additional information, they were taken outside where a driver and a three-quarter-ton truck were waiting. Gilman and Hansen tossed the gear into the back and climbed in after it. Bromhead got into the front, on a seat that was dirty and torn, and nodded at the driver. Within minutes they were on the streets of Saigon, winding their way to the north and Bien Hoa where their transportation waited.

  They bounced along crowded streets that were jammed with men in uniform and women in the traditional ao dai. Heavily made-up prostitutes lounged on some of the corners, their skirts no more than wide belts and their blouses either see-through or incredibly tight. Hundreds of Lambrettas swerved among the military vehicles and countless bicycles. The driver dodged through the traffic, missing the Hondas and pedestrians, finding the gaps in the traffic just before they closed.

  Bromhead sat with his back braced against the door and one hand on the dashboard. He listened to the rumbling diesel engine and tried to ignore the stench of exhaust fumes. Once, when the driver swerved too close to a gaudily painted car, he found himself jamming his feet against the floorboards, but said nothing.

  Soon they left the city and headed into open country that seemed to have been bulldozed. The green of the jungle had been stripped away to reveal the reddish brown earth. Water from the various rivers had spread from their banks, flooding some of the surrounding area and puddles winked brightly in the afternoon sun. Men and women were working, along with machinery, some of it painted yellow and some of it OD green.

  Across the river they turned to the west and entered the Bien Hoa military complex. The MP at the makeshift gate didn’t even leave the guard hut. He waved an arm out the window, telling them to proceed.

  The driver ground the gears as they rolled along a dirt road, kicking up a choking cloud of red dust. They left the built-up area and pulled into an open park that overlooked the edge of the airfield. A jeep sat to one side, next to a CH-47 Chinook with the ramp down and the doors open. The flight crew seemed to be lounging in the shade of the chopper, drinking Cokes from clear glass bottles.

  As Bromhead got out of the truck, Petersen walked over. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Gear is loaded on the chopper. Got a list in the jeep and you can sign for it.”

  Bromhead gave Petersen a strange look. He passed a hand over his face and wiped the sweat onto the front of his jungle fatigues. He took off the soft fatigue hat and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. Finally he said, “I don’t sign for anything until I see all that I’m signing for. And I don’t sign for anything that I’m expected to leave in the field.”

  “You have to sign for it,” said Petersen.

  “I don’t have to do anything, Colonel,” said Bromhead.

  “Well, we won’t worry about that right now. Why don’t you have your men put their equipment in the chopper? You can check to see if you have everything you need.”

  Bromhead saw both Gilman and Hansen drop to the ground. They pulled their duffel bags from the rear of the truck. Gilman shouldered his and then grabbed Bromhead’s.

  “Thanks,” said Bromhead.

  “No sweat, sir.”

  Bromhead picked up his equipment and walked to the helicopter. He dropped the bag and moved toward the crewmen. “You all know exactly where we’re going?”

  The pilot was a young man with a permanently sunburned face, white-blond hair and almost nonexistent eyebrows. “We’ve been thoroughly briefed.” He held a hand up to shade his eyes as he spoke.

  “Then as soon as I’ve checked the gear and gotten my people on board, we’ll be ready for takeoff.”

  The pilot stood, brushed the dirt off the seat of his uniform and said, “Right.” He drained the Coke and handed the empty bottle to one of the others. “Let’s do it.”

  As the crew scrambled to their positions, Bromhead and his men got their gear into the rear of the chopper. The crew chief took the duffel bags and stacked them in front of several crates that were lined up along the center of the aircraft. The crates were strapped to pallets that sat on rails, ball bearing-loaded metal strips that let one man push a huge load out of the helicopter. On each side of the fuselage were troop seats with a webbing of red that formed the backs of the seats.

  Once everything was loaded, Bromhead stepped out and walked over to the jeep. Petersen was sitting in the passenger’s side, his foot on the dash, gazing idly at the airfield around him. He turned and picked a clipboard off the rear seat when he saw Bromhead approaching.

  Bromhead held out a palm. “I’m still not signing for anything.”

  “All the equipment there?”

  “As near as I can tell, but I refuse to be responsible for something I can’t carry out. We get into a bad situation and have to dump the equipment, I can see some rear-area bureaucrat tossing forms at me and deciding that I should pay for the stuff.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Damn right,” said Bromhead. “Anything else?”

  “Hansen has the schedule for contacts. He knows how you’re supposed to make any radio checks to prevent the enemy from triangulating. He has the codes for messages to you as well. He’s been thoroughly briefed.”

  “Okay,” said Bromhead. He glanced around. “I don’t see the medic.”

  Petersen made a show of looking at his watch and then at his clipboard. “Guess he’s not going to make it.”

  “You know, Colonel, I would be within my rights to refuse this mission right now. Special Forces will back me up all the way on this.”

  Petersen set his clipboard down and stared at the younger officer. “You will not scrap the mission because of this. You’ll have one stop en route and if you can find a medic there who is qualified to work in the field, you take him. You cannot scrap the mission because the medic missed the flight.”

  For a moment Bromhead stood staring at the colonel. He didn’t like going out without a medic, and there was still a chance that he could find one. He thought about it, almost refused and then decided that he would get one at the rest stop. He nodded. “Okay.”

  “Now, if it looks like the VC or NVA are going to make a push to overrun your camp, get out. You run into the night with Hansen and Gilman, and if you can’t get out, make sure that neither of them is captured.”

  Bromhead stared directly into Petersen’s eyes for a moment. “I assume you mean that as a last resort, I shoot them.”

  “That’s right. Then you shoot yourself. It’s the old Seventh Cavalry rule. Save the last round for yourself.”

  “Didn’t do them a shit load of good, did it?”

  “No, but those are your instructions.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to give that to me in writing?”

  “You suppose right.”

  Behind them there was a high-pitched whine as the turbine of one of the engines began to spin. The sound was followed by a roar as the engine reached operating rpm.

  Petersen stuck his hand out. “Good luck, Captain.
I know this isn’t a choice assignment, but you pull it off and people will notice. They’ll be grateful, if you understand. Sorry that everything seems to be so haphazard.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate your words.” He turned and trotted to the chopper, climbing the ramp into the rear of the aircraft. Once he was buckled in his seat, the crew chief raised the ramp.

  Through the round windows of the fuselage, Bromhead could see a cloud of swirling dust and debris as the chopper picked up to a hover. It tilted and spun, the sunlight flashing through the portholes. Then the aircraft began to move across the airfield. The scream of the engines increased and almost drowned out the popping of the twin, heavy-duty rotor system.

  They stopped moving, hanging in the air just above the ground, the dirt swirling about them, and then the nose dropped and they picked up speed to begin the climb.

  CHAPTER 2

  QUI NHON, RVN

  They had been airborne for more than three hours when the pitch in the Chinook’s engines changed and Bromhead realized that they were descending. He opened his eyes to see the sun touching the horizon, bathing everything in bright oranges and fiery reds.

  The crew chief sat next to him and yelled over the noise, “We’re going to land for refueling. It’ll be a couple of hours before we take off again if we want to hit the LZ at dawn.”

  “Where are we?” asked Bromhead.

  “Qui Nhon.”

  “Qui Nhon? That’s on the coast.”

  “Yes, sir. Given the time frame, it made sense for us to stop here. Besides, they’ve got one hell of an enlisted personnel club. Serves steaks an inch thick, beer in buckets and all the French fries you can eat. Not to mention the waitresses who wear very little because it’s warm inside.”

  “Great,” said Bromhead.

  The crew chief got up and made his way to the forward section of the aircraft. Bromhead glanced across the fuselage. Gilman had stretched out, his hat over his eyes. Hansen was kneeling near the equipment, checking to see what they had.

  A moment later the aircraft bounced and the crew chief reappeared as the engine whine died. “AC said that we had four hours here. Grab some food or whatever, but be back here by midnight.”

  Gilman pulled his hat off his eyes. “You have any plans, Captain?”

  “No. Didn’t know we were going to land.”

  “Well then, sir, come with me. I’ll take you to that club where the steaks are thick, the beer is ice cold, and the women nearly naked.”

  The last thing Bromhead wanted to do was sit in a hot, smoky club with a bunch of drunken soldiers and sailors, but he didn’t want to alienate his new men. There had been no time to get to know them. He had been thrown together with them and told that he would be working with them behind enemy lines. They would have to support one another and each would depend on the other. It was not a situation that Bromhead liked. Now that Gilman had made the first move he would have to respond and he didn’t want to give the impression that he thought he was better than either Gilman or Hansen.

  “Okay,” said Bromhead. “But I’ll buy the beer.”

  The big Marine clapped his hands together and nearly shouted, “You got a deal there, sir. Hey, Hansen, you going to join this party or you going to be a fucking stick-in-the-mud like last night?”

  Hansen shrugged his shoulders but didn’t look at Gilman. “There’s work to be done right here. I think I’ll just stick around.”

  “Hell, man,” said Gilman. “You got to eat.”

  “We’ve got cases of C-rations.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Gilman, laughing. “Fucking C-rats when you can have steak, probably the last you’ll see in a long time. Well, don’t say we didn’t ask.”

  “Okay, Hansen,” said Bromhead. “We’ll leave our weapons here and you watch them. We won’t travel too far from the club so that if anything comes up, you’ll be able to find us.”

  Hansen grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  Bromhead was on his feet and moving toward the hatch. He stopped and turned. “Listen, I’ve had it with this ‘yes sir’ crap. Can we, for my sake, suspend it for a while, at least until we get into the field?”

  “Certainly,” said Gilman.

  “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  In the fading sun, the lights of the base were barely discernible. Some of them were single bulbs that glowed dimly, others were bright, marking the edges of the airfield or one of the many clubs. Bromhead wondered about it but realized that Charlie didn’t have any air power so that blackout regulations didn’t mean much. Later, after midnight, the number and brightness of the lights were probably reduced to inhibit the enemy mortar crews who needed aiming stakes more than they needed lights.

  They crossed the airstrip, a runway of PSP surrounded by dirt taxiways, and walked out onto a dirt road. To the right was a low building that seemed to pulse with the throbbing beat of rock music. Outside the building a group of men sat drinking beer from cans, smoking and talking noisily among themselves.

  Gilman pushed past them and dragged Bromhead into the building as the music died and the swell of conversation rose. The interior was everything that Bromhead had expected. Small tables crowded together, a bar that dominated one side of the room with men four deep around it, and a jukebox on a raised platform where two soldiers stood reading the selections and feeding quarters into it.

  The atmosphere in the room was hot and thick with cigarette smoke that immediately burned the eyes. Overhead, three ceiling fans rotated but did nothing to circulate the air or dissipate the smoke. There were nearly two dozen waitresses pushing their way among the men, some of them carrying trays with drinks, while others balanced platters of food deftly above the crowd. Each was dressed in a tiny skirt that displayed ruffled panties as she moved and tight-fitting blouses cut low to reveal flashes of breast.

  Gilman grinned as one of the waitresses pushed by him. He swung a big hand at her backside, missing it by inches.

  A voice from the left stopped them. “You’ve got to be an E-5 or above to use this facility, gentlemen.” The speaker was a fat, balding man with a cigar clamped between his teeth.

  Gilman took the wallet from his pocket and flashed his ID card. “This do it?”

  “For you, yes. What about him?”

  “He’s my guest.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Gilman shouldered his way in, found a table just as two men vacated it. He grabbed a waitress by the arm and yelled over the growing din, fueled by the tunes beginning on the jukebox, “Bring us a couple of beers.”

  Bromhead dropped into the chair opposite him, leaned forward on the table, but didn’t speak. He watched the ebb and flow of the crowd, listening to the blaring music, raucous laughter and swearing soldiers.

  “You shouldn’t have that wallet,” said Bromhead, “especially with your ID card in it.”

  “Military regulations require that we carry the Form Two, military ID card, wear our ID tags, and do not carry concealed weapons.”

  “Not on a covert mission. Before we get into the field, you’re going to have to destroy that.”

  Gilman studied him for a moment. “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, why don’t you wait here while I go see if I can scare up a medic? That asshole Petersen promised one at Bien Hoa and didn’t deliver.”

  Gilman, happy that the subject was changed from his ID card, said, “You sure we need a medic?”

  “If you get wounded, who do you want treating you? Me, or a fully qualified medic?”

  “I see your point.” He was silent until the music died again. “You want to eat here?”

  “Why not? Couple of steaks or whatever.”

  The drinks arrived. As Gilman leaned close to the waitress, he could see that she was sweating heavily, her clothes almost drenched.

  Bromhead drained his glass in a long gulp and then stood. “I’ll be back in a little while. Give me about thirty minutes and then order the dinner. Steak, rare. Potato bake
d, with butter, and a beer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bromhead returned a few minutes before the waitress brought the food. He explained to Gilman that he’d had no luck, but one major promised to try to help. He hoped to have someone out to the airfield by midnight.

  Gilman thanked the waitress, who flashed a practiced smile, then disappeared. “So,” he asked Bromhead, “this your first tour in Vietnam?”

  Bromhead knew what Gilman was asking. Not if it was his first tour, but if he had any experience. Gilman wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going into combat with a man who hadn’t been there before.

  Bromhead grinned. “I have good news and bad news. I’ve only been here for a couple of months.” He saw the expression on Gilman’s face change and added quickly, “But I’ve been here once before for a year and a half.”

  “Then you know the score, sir.”

  Now Bromhead didn’t know whether he should be insulted or not. It wasn’t the place of the NCOs to question the assignment of the officers. Then he remembered something he had been told by an enlisted man a couple of years earlier. It was his life on the line, too, and sometimes he had ideas that made sense. It was only a complete idiot who didn’t listen to the enlisted men just because they held a lower rank.

  “I’ve been around for a while, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, sir. Anyway, this is my second tour and I want to make sure that I have the opportunity for a third.”

  “You want a third tour?” asked Bromhead.

  “No, just the opportunity for one. There is a difference. After the first tour, I didn’t expect to be back. For a while there, I didn’t expect to leave.”

  “What happened?”

  “Got trapped on a hilltop with about twenty other Marines while it seemed that the entire army of North Vietnam tried to overrun us. Spent the night beating back the enemy and treating each other for wounds. Artillery was raining down around us as our boys tried to stop the assaults, and enemy mortars kept dropping on us in answer to the cannon cockers.” Gilman took a deep drink of his beer.