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

  Bromhead didn’t know what to say. Some men considered it impolite to ask questions about past actions. Some men repressed them, preferring to pretend that it never happened. Others wanted to talk about it, share it with men who understood the feelings. Understood how it was possible to shoot someone at close range and not feel guilt.

  Gilman was opening up and it was something that Bromhead didn’t want to stop. There were questions he could ask but he wasn’t sure that Gilman wanted them asked.

  And then the spell was broken. They began to eat, but didn’t talk. The jukebox, fed with a continual stream of coins from the parade of men, drowned out conversation. Around eight, the bartender unplugged the jukebox and turned on the club’s stereo system with its concert hall speakers. As the driving beat shook the building one of the waitresses, newly attired in a long dress, gloves and high-heel shoes, began dancing. Slowly she removed her clothes until she wore only the shoes, a G-string, and a garter belt with fishnet stockings. Her fingers dipped into her G-string, pulling out cotton balls that she tossed at the roaring crowd.

  When they finished eating, Gilman went to the bar and got two more beers. On his return, he stopped next to a waitress in an incredibly short skirt and whispered something to her. She smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

  Gilman suggested that they drink the beer outside, and they left the club. Bromhead found a spot under a tree and sat on the bench, letting the cool breeze from the ocean wash over him. There was a hint of salt in the air and the odor of fish, but after the steam-bath heat of the club and the stench of cigarette smoke, it was a welcome relief. He felt the sweat drying quickly.

  Bromhead noticed that Gilman had rolled up the sleeves of his fatigues, revealing a tattoo on his forearm, the birdy on the ball, the insignia of the Marine Corps. That told Bromhead something about the man. But it was also one more way for the group to be identified as Americans, if the enemy got a chance to examine the bodies. Bromhead decided that he didn’t think much of Colonel Petersen and the people who had planned the mission. Obviously they had consulted no one from the Special Forces.

  The other unknown was Hansen. He didn’t seem to be the type to end up in a mountain village teaching the Meos how to fight the VC and NVA. A conscientious man, but not a soldier at heart, because a real soldier wouldn’t have joined the Air Force. A man interested in aviation would, but not someone who thought like a ground-pounder. Bromhead figured it would be up to him and Gilman to do the fighting. Bromhead wanted to ask more about the battle that Gilman had mentioned, but as they drank, the opening never came.

  Neither said much. Both seemed to be enjoying the music playing softly in the distance. When they finished, they left the bottles on the ground but stayed where they were. Neither seemed anxious to return to the airfield.

  A little later, the waitress that Gilman had spoken to slipped out the door. She hesitated there, brushing the sweat-damp hair from her forehead and ignoring the shouts and whistles from the men near her. She looked around, spotted Gilman and raised a hand in acknowledgment as she came toward him.

  Gilman hopped up and held out a hand. When she was near, he said, “This is Lim. I have a date with her.”

  Bromhead stood and bowed slightly. “Very nice to meet you, Lim.”

  She smiled and cast her eyes down shyly. “Thank you,” she said in heavily accented English.

  Bromhead dropped back onto the bench and Gilman waited until Lim had perched herself on the edge of a wooden crate that someone had dragged over as a makeshift chair.

  “Well, Lim,” said Gilman sitting across from her, “how long have you worked here?”

  “I been here three month,” she said, grinning. Her teeth were nearly perfect, the only defect being a gap between the two front teeth. As she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her skirt rode higher, revealing the flawless skin of her thighs.

  “Working in the club all that time?” asked Gilman.

  “I dance there. Yes.” She crossed her legs very slowly, watching the eyes of both men. Then she sat up straight, pulling her shoulders back so that the material of her blouse stretched across her small breasts. It was obvious that she wore no bra. Her nipples strained against the fabric.

  “Dance and waitress,” said Gilman.

  “That right. I do both. Before I hootch maid. Clean room and shine boot.”

  “Are you from this area? Qui Nhon?” asked Bromhead.

  “I from Tuy Phuoc. My father and mother there. They farm but I do not like that. Too hard. I come here and get good job. I make much money.”

  Gilman stood suddenly and seized her hand. She smiled up at him but didn’t stand. “I think we’ll take a walk,” said Gilman.

  “I’ll be right here,” said Bromhead.

  Now Lim stood and followed Gilman to a large bush, partially in the shadows. They disappeared behind it and then, a moment later, Lim stood where Bromhead could see her. She was looking down, as if studying something on the ground, as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, shrugging it from her shoulders. It fell away, and then she unzipped her tiny skirt. She slipped it over her hips. Now there was only a wisp of paleness around her and she pushed that down her thighs to her knees. She ran a hand through her long, thick hair so that it all hung down her back to her waist. Then she turned so that she was facing Bromhead, letting him examine her nearly naked body.

  Even in the half-light outside the club, he could tell that she had a fine body. Small breasts that were beautifully sculptured with large, dark nipples. An hourglass shape and then a tangle of dark hair. She grinned at him and then vanished again, crouching behind the bush.

  There was a cooing, then a giggle and a sigh of pure pleasure. For a moment there was quiet and then a quiet, rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh that began slowly but increased in tempo. There was another sigh and then a moan that was drawn out into a cry of pleasure. It grew steadily, peaked and dropped off into silence.

  A moment later Lim reappeared wearing her skirt and her unbuttoned blouse. She was carrying her panties in her hand. She dropped to the bench next to Bromhead and twisted around so that he could see her breasts, her knee touching his hip.

  “You like?”

  “More than you’ll know, Lim.”

  She spread her legs slightly, one foot on the ground and the other tucked under her. “What you mean?”

  “It means I’ve got to get back to work. I have much to do tonight.”

  She looked as if she was going to cry. “You don’t like Lim.”

  “I think you’re a very nice girl, but I’ve got to go to work.”

  She pouted for a moment, then spread her blouse wide, as if cooling her chest, and then closed it slowly, buttoning it carefully. “You go to work and not know what you miss. I am very good. Best you ever find.”

  She stood in front of him, drew her skirt up to her waist and then slowly stepped into her panties. She wiggled from side to side, watching Bromhead all the while, as the underwear finally covered her genital area. She yanked them tight, snapped the waistband, then smoothed her skirt over her hips. Without a word, she spun and trotted back to the club.

  As she left, Gilman stepped close. “She’s very good.”

  Bromhead already knew that. It had taken quite an effort to ignore the show she put on for him. To Gilman he said, “I think it’s time we returned to the aircraft.”

  “If you insist, sir.”

  When they got to the airfield, the flight crew was still missing, and there was no sign of a medic. Hansen was sitting in the cargo compartment, reading a paperback by flashlight. He looked up, acknowledged their presence with a nod, then turned his attention back to the book.

  “Anybody been by here?” asked Bromhead.

  “No, sir,” replied Hansen. “It’s been very quiet. Jeep drove by once but when I looked out the hatch, he took off without a word.”

  “Damn.” Bromhead thought about calling the major again and asking the status of the search for a medic, but kne
w it would do no good. The man would either find him a medic in time or he wouldn’t, and calling wouldn’t help him.

  Bromhead lay down on the troop seat, and put an arm over his eyes. He tried to tune out the noise around him, including the roar of aircraft engines, the pop of rotor blades and even the chattering of machine guns on the bunker line. The heat no longer bothered him that much although he unbuttoned his fatigue shirt, letting it hang open.

  The flight crew came aboard just before midnight and went about their duties. The crew chief woke Bromhead, instructed him to strap in. They would be taking off soon. Bromhead inquired if the medic had arrived, but the crew chief knew nothing about any medic. They were almost ready to take off with one more stop scheduled at a small Special Forces camp at Dak Sut. This was necessary so that they would not be too early to the landing zone in Laos.

  Once they were airborne, Bromhead went back to sleep. He was awakened just before landing and watched the approach to the darkened hillside. There was jungle all around and in the center of a gray patch a single flashing light.

  When the aircraft touched down, Bromhead moved to the rear and checked through the equipment. He pulled out his rucksack and pistol belt. There were three canteens hung on it, all of them empty. As the roar from the engines died, Bromhead approached the crew chief. “How long will we be here?”

  “Awhile. Why?”

  “Need to get my canteens filled and my pack ready. And talk to the Detachment CO.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. The sneaky Petes inside will help with the water and tell you where the CO is.”

  Within twenty minutes Bromhead was back and in a black mood. Like almost every Special Forces camp in South Vietnam, this one had been stripped of personnel by MACV-SOG to make up the various details for Project Delta. One of the first men taken had been the senior medic from the camp. That left them with one and the CO wasn’t going to give him up. Bromhead thanked him and cursed Petersen. The fucking, ground-pounding leg didn’t understand that a medic was essential.

  Back at the aircraft, Bromhead sorted through his equipment, made up his pack, keeping it light since they would be relocating to the village quickly. Then he sat in the darkened interior of the aircraft to wait. He tried not to think about Petersen, except as he might look dangling at the end of a rope after the skin had been slowly peeled from his body.

  Hansen, who had gone to the Special Forces commo bunker to make a radio check, returned a few minutes later. He played his flashlight around the interior of the aircraft and then switched it off.

  “You ready for this mission, Captain?” he asked, trying to strike up a conversation.

  Bromhead looked toward the sound, but could only see a dark lump where Hansen sat. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Hansen didn’t say any more and after a while, Bromhead heard a snore. He grinned and then lay down. Gilman returned a short while later, but didn’t speak. They all were silent then, each lost in his own thoughts. Bromhead wanted to say something, give them a last-minute pep talk, but didn’t know what to say to them. He didn’t know the men with him and that worried him, just as it had worried Gilman.

  When the flight crew returned from the mess hall, they went through the preflight procedure again. This time, when they were airborne, Bromhead didn’t lie down. He watched the landscape under the aircraft but could see little in the darkness. A ribbon of silver that marked a river, or a thread of black that was a road. There were splatterings of dark gray that signified villages, some of them with scattered lights, and patterns of flat black that marked thick jungle around them. Bromhead watched them all, searching for the flashes of enemy weapons and the lines of tracers climbing toward them. He saw nothing.

  Suddenly Bromhead saw a blinking red light outside the aircraft. He moved forward and tapped the crew chief on the shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Escort aircraft. To make sure that we hit the right place. The AC is in touch with an AWACS aircraft that is using various electronic devices to pinpoint the LZ. The aircraft you see out there is going to lead us in.”

  “Great,” said Bromhead. “Just what we need on a covert mission.” He moved back to his seat to wait.

  Within minutes the crew chief was standing near him and yelling over the sound of the engines. “We’re about five out. Get ready.”

  Bromhead joined Gilman and Hansen at the rear of the aircraft. Two crewmen also came up to them. Bromhead was about to ask how much longer when he felt his stomach reach his throat as they began a rapid descent. It seemed that they were plunging to the ground. Bromhead’s hand shot out in reflex, grabbing one of the support legs of the troop seats.

  There was a sudden increase in gravity and Bromhead felt himself forced down. An instant later the pressure let up as the aircraft bounced once then settled to the ground. The crew chief ran back as one of the other crewmen hit the switch to lower the ramp.

  “Go. Go. Go!” yelled the crew chief as he flipped open the buckles on the cargo belts that held the pallets in place.

  Bromhead grabbed his weapon and his duffel bag and leaped out of the open hatch. He landed on the soft ground, scrambled to the edge of the jungle and halted. Over his shoulder, he could see that Gilman had taken a position on the other side of the LZ while Hansen helped to discharge the equipment. Quickly, they had it piled at the bottom of the ramp and the crewmen had disappeared inside. The engine noise increased and the aircraft rose, the rotor wash swirling around the LZ, kicking up anything that was loose. The sound faded as the helicopter climbed out, the engines belching streaks of fire.

  Then the chopper was gone and the quiet became eerie. The silence was so deep that Bromhead wondered if something had gone wrong with his hearing until he heard a piercing scream, probably from some animal awakened by the helicopter.

  Bromhead settled down to wait. He glanced to the east and saw the first faint fingers of dawn reaching into the sky. Overhead, in the jungle canopy, scrambling noises drew Bromhead’s attention. He hoped that it was a monkey disturbed by the chopper. He looked up, but could see nothing in the darkness.

  Unsnapping the camouflage cover on his watch, he lifted it to check the time and then refastened it. He turned toward the LZ, but could only make out a pale lump at one end where the equipment had been pushed. He let his eyes shift over the jungle, listened to the light rustling of leaves as a breeze blew through, but there was no evidence of humans.

  Suddenly he realized that he could pick out individual trees and bushes and that the jungle had become gray instead of black. There were patches of mist drifting among the trees, making it look as if the jungle was on fire. The sky was now light gray. Bromhead got to his feet and drifted back into the LZ.

  “Okay, we’ve got a lot of work to do today.” Bromhead spoke quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but the two NCOs heard him.

  When they were grouped around the equipment, Bromhead unfolded his map, now that it was bright enough to read. He was about to speak when the jungle exploded into a riot of sound. Monkeys were howling at each other, birds were screeching and parrots squawking. Each of the men dived for cover, their weapons at the ready, but there was nothing to shoot at. They could see the animals running through the treetops, shaking the branches, screaming.

  For twenty minutes the noise kept up, louder than the inside of the helicopter. They could hear nothing unless they were right next to one another, shouting directly into each other’s ear. But they couldn’t hold a three-way conversation.

  Then, as abruptly as it started, the noise ended. Through the early morning mists, Bromhead could see no movement. Everything settled down, as if the creatures had gone into hiding.

  Bromhead got his men together again, the map spread out on the top of a crate. “We’re supposed to be here and the village is supposed to be here. Two klicks at the most. I’ll head off to make contact with the villagers. You two stay here and guard the equipment. I suggest you
do it from the jungle. Watch it, but don’t sit on it. I expect to be back before noon with enough men to move everything into the ville.”

  Gilman spun the map so that he could look at it. He traced a route to the ville and then the line of a river. “If you don’t return by noon?”

  “Then you take charge. You can do one of two things. Either try to make contact with the villagers or E and E to South Vietnam.”

  “What do you suggest, sir?” asked Gilman.

  “That you try to find me before you bug out, but as I say, that’s up to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bromhead slapped Gilman on the shoulder. “Now you got it.” He looked at his watch, the camouflage now folded back. “I make it ten of five.”

  “So you have seven hours to the ville and to get back here,” said Hansen.

  “Right.”

  Bromhead folded the map and stuffed it into a side pocket. He shouldered his rucksack and buckled his pistol belt. He then checked the magazine on his weapon, an old M-1 carbine and chambered a round. As he set the safety, he said, “Seven hours and then you’re on your own.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gilman. “Good luck.”

  With that, Bromhead crossed the LZ and entered the trees to the north. He halted just inside the tree line and crouched near a giant bush with huge leaves and large pink flowers. He glanced to the right where a thorn-covered vine climbed the trunk of a tree, strangling the life from it. Overhead, the canopy closed, the broad leaves of the trees intertwining to form an unbroken roof. To the rear, he could see a patch of blue and the shafts of light from the sun. Water dripped down from the top, running along the broad leaves of the plants and down the trunks of the trees. It splashed on Bromhead, soaking his already sweat-damp uniform. As he wiped his sleeve across his forehead, he could smell the moist dirt. The dank odor reminded him of summer and his mother’s fruit cellar. He knew the day was going to be hot and muggy, with the humidity draining everyone’s strength.