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

  Rising to his feet, Bromhead found a narrow game trail and began to follow it. He knew that inside Laos the VC and NVA would not booby trap the trails or lay ambushes because the Americans and South Vietnamese were not supposed to be there. Booby traps would be more of a hindrance to the Communists than to the Americans.

  Bromhead crouched so that he could move along the tunnel created by the tightly intertwined bushes. The ground was soft and damp, his footprints filling with water as he made his way along the trail. He reached out to push a vine aside and immediately felt a burning sensation. He jerked his hand back and saw a red welt forming on the skin of his hand. With the barrel of his carbine, he pushed the vine out of the way and ducked under, careful not to let it touch him. From that point, he used the rifle to brush aside any vegetation that blocked his way.

  Within minutes he was tired, hot and thirsty. His pace slowed as he began to climb. His mouth hung open as if he couldn’t get enough air and his lungs ached. It was almost as if he had run a klick or two instead of only a hundred meters. His condition was due in part to being in the jungle again, and part of it was due to the altitude. He was three or four thousand feet above sea level where the air was thinner. Before leaving on the mission, he should have demanded a couple of weeks for conditioning.

  He worked his way deeper into the twilight of the jungle. There were occasional patches of sunlight where there were tiny breaks in the thick canopy, but those were few. The deeper he went, the dimmer it became, until he was in a world of perpetual twilight.

  After thirty minutes he stopped and took out his map, but the jungle was so dense there were no landmarks visible. Just mahogany, teak, palm and coconut trees. Some of these grew nearly two hundred feet tall, others shorter. Then there were bushes and brush that clung to the ground. And a small stream that wasn’t marked on the map.

  Bromhead pulled out his compass, sighted on a distinctive tree, a dead teak that was turning gray, and headed toward it. When he got there, he stopped long enough to drink from his canteen, and waste a little water on his go-to-hell rag. He made another sighting, then started off again. Two hours later, he decided that he had missed the village. Suddenly he heard voices to his right. He dropped to the ground, listening and realized that they weren’t speaking Vietnamese. He crawled forward slowly, easing his way among the bushes and trees, being careful not to make noise.

  The jungle thinned abruptly, the broad-leafed plants and lacy ferns giving way to thick grass two or three feet tall. Bromhead found a rotting log and used it for cover. Craning, he could see into the village. Thatched hootches sat on stilts with notched logs leading to them. Some were surrounded by fences of woven branches and fires burned near others. Bare-chested women with bright clothes wrapped around their waists, tended the fires. Men wearing loose loincloths walked around chasing pigs, chickens and children. He could see stagnant pools of water and the odor of an uncovered sewer assaulted his nostrils.

  Bromhead watched the village for a moment, wondering if this could possibly be the right place. The report had suggested that the French had taught them about slit trenches, penning the animals, and personal hygiene. The report had outlined how the French had brought civilization to the area. Either the villagers had forgotten the training, or this was the wrong place.

  And there was no evidence of military discipline. The report had said that the ville had been organized into a strike force, but none of the men wore anything that looked like a uniform. There was no evidence of weapons, other than a machete carried by one man and a crossbow held by another.

  Bromhead wasn’t sure what to do. He took out his map and checked it carefully. According to it, there were no other villages close, but that didn’t mean much. A thatch hootch didn’t take long to construct and the fluid nature of the war could easily force the villagers to relocate. There was no guarantee that this was the right place, or if it was the right place, that it was the right group of people. The natives sometimes built their villages on the sites of old, deserted hamlets.

  Bromhead decided he had no choice. Even if this was the wrong place, he would have to make contact. Slowly he got to his feet until he was standing in full view. When no one seemed to notice him, he began to walk forward. As he moved he slipped his weapon to his shoulder using the sling. He kept his hands held high where they were easily visible to anyone who wanted to look.

  He was within ten yards of the village when someone spotted him. There was a shout of alarm and three of the men ran forward, forming a human wall in front of the village. Bromhead halted, grinned and shouted in French, “Greetings. I bring you assistance and weapons.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MEO VILLAGE, SOUTHEASTERN LAOS

  For a moment they all stood there looking at one another. The women gathered the children and fled toward the rear of the village until they were out of sight. A dog, hidden under one of the hootches, began to bark. No one spoke, although one of the males was swinging his machete in tiny circles.

  Bromhead spoke again in French. “Greetings,” he said, and was tempted to add, “from the people of the United States,” but that was supposed to be something of a secret. He tried to think of something else to say, but his limited French, taken in high school and his first year of college, and only augmented in a limited fashion by the Army, deserted him.

  The men began jabbering among themselves. Another three males joined them. One of the original group came forward. A short, skinny man with long, thick greasy hair. He was covered with mud, had extremely long fingernails, and blue eyes. There was a ragged, puckered scar on his shoulder so that his left arm hung at an almost impossible angle. He held a hand up and began speaking to Bromhead slowly and distinctly in a language that Bromhead couldn’t understand.

  Bromhead had only been in the village for a few minutes and it already seemed to be a disaster. He couldn’t communicate with anyone and the natives didn’t look all that friendly. One of them kept eyeing his M-1, as if he expected to take it off Bromhead’s body. Another kept his machete in motion, drawing Bromhead’s attention to the blade. It looked incredibly sharp.

  Bromhead tried it again. He held up a hand, palm out in a friendly manner, and said, “Greetings. I have arrived to help in the war against the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese. I have weapons and equipment.”

  There was some response from the men. They looked at one another and spoke among themselves rapidly in a singsong language. Bromhead didn’t like the way the situation was developing. He let his right hand drop to his side where he unsnapped the strap on his holster, which held a Browning M-35 9mm pistol, his eyes locked on those of the man standing in the middle.

  Then suddenly, from somewhere in the village, a feminine voice shouted in English, “Who in the hell are you?”

  Everyone turned. A woman, dressed like the natives, bare to the waist with a brightly colored cloth knotted around her waist appeared. She had blond hair that hung in a tangle. There were tan lines on her breasts and she wore sandals. She was taller than the natives by a good four inches. She stopped walking, ran a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face, and then put a hand on her hip.

  “I asked, who in the hell are you?”

  Bromhead was momentarily stunned. He hadn’t been ready for a white woman to appear among the natives; one who spoke English and who seemed to have her own ideas. The rest of the women remained hidden, this one was now standing behind the men, a hand on her hip. Remembering his directive that demanded silence, Bromhead merely said, “I’m Bromhead. Jack Bromhead.”

  “And what in the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been sent to provide, ah, aid for these people.” He found himself staring at her breasts. They were a golden brown while her shoulders and stomach were quite dark. They were firm, well-shaped breasts and as he watched, the nipples grew erect. He tried to pull his eyes away but couldn’t.

  She noticed his gaze and was suddenly embarrassed by it. She raised her hands, dropped them
and then tried to casually fold her arms over her chest, hiding herself.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Jane Lucas.” She recrossed her arms, splaying her fingers out to hide her nipples. “I’m studying the culture and internal structure of the Meo. I’ve a grant from the National Endowment for the Sciences. I’ve been here for twelve weeks. Arrived with the help of the Laotian government, on that grant. A legal grant. Here to study these people in their natural habitat.”

  Bromhead realized that she was babbling. Maybe she was embarrassed by being caught seminude. He let his eyes fall to the ground and found himself staring at her ankles. Very trim ankles that were smeared with dirt.

  The man with the scarred shoulder began speaking, first to Lucas in Meo, his voice rising and falling harshly, and then to one of the men. He was taller and stockier than the rest and wore only black shorts. His hair was braided. He said something in a sharp, quiet voice. The woman looked at him, stood her ground for a moment and then spun, stomping off. Bromhead watched her retreat.

  In French, the man said, “You have brought weapons?”

  “Yes. Many. And other equipment. Things that you need and you can have, all of it stored close to the village. We have a great deal of work to do.” He kept his eyes on Lucas until she disappeared around a corner.

  “Then let us get started,” said the man. He faced the village and put his hands to the sides of his mouth, yelling in a high-pitched, warbling voice. He kept the call going, sounding as if he was calling the men to a prayer meeting.

  People began to appear from inside the hootches, out of the jungle, and from behind the fences and near the scattered trees. They formed a ragged line behind the tall man, looking as if they were trying to remember their military lessons. A couple of them stood with their crossbows at their sides. One man held a rifle with a stock made from bamboo.

  Bromhead moved down the line like a general reviewing his troops. He glanced at each man and the weapon he held, trying to ignore the odor of unwashed humanity that radiated from the villagers. Each of them was smeared with dirt, their feet black. One of the first things that Bromhead would have to do was institute a program of cleanliness.

  When he finished, he walked back to the headman and stopped. He was anxious to suggest that they set up a guard system, get a roving patrol into the jungle to watch for the enemy, and to start a regular program of patrolling so that they wouldn’t be surprised. He wanted to get things cleaned up and start on building bunkers. There were a hundred things that needed to be done immediately but it wasn’t the time. He would have to learn patience. He couldn’t get it all done in one day. There would have to be a program of priorities so that he didn’t drive himself crazy trying to do too much too soon.

  “I will need,” he told the man who seemed to be the leader, “thirty men to help move the equipment from the landing zone to your village. We will need a place to store it, and then I will want to talk to all the men who have received some kind of military training.”

  The leader nodded through the speech and then spun, trying to execute an about-face. With his hands at his sides, he shouted at the men in their language. He pointed at them, splitting them into two groups. When he was finished, he turned back to Bromhead. “We go now.”

  “Okay,” said Bromhead in English. He had hoped for a chance to look around the village before they went after the equipment, but that couldn’t be done. Besides, there were no signs of any other military presence. The only problem was the white woman, but it was a problem he would have to deal with later. Now the headman was anxious to get moving, and so was Bromhead.

  He nodded at the headman and then spoke in French. “Form the men into a line. I will take the point. I want three men at the end of the line as a rear guard. You understand?”

  “I have it.” He grinned, displaying broken and yellowed teeth.

  Bromhead unslung his carbine, thought about it, and then handed it to the headman. “You carry this,” he said. “I’ll use my pistol.”

  Bromhead led them to the game trail that he had used to find the camp. He promised himself that it was something he would never do again in South Vietnam. In the combat environment of Vietnam, using the same trail twice was the quickest way to get ambushed and eliminated. But this wasn’t South Vietnam and not a combat environment. The enemy didn’t expect the Americans to be operating in Laos and weren’t looking for them. Once they had their camp established and began military operations, Bromhead would have to be careful about violating the rules, but at this moment, the quickest route was the best.

  Once they were into the jungle, away from the village, Bromhead stopped long enough to review the column. It was obvious that the men had had some military training, and as they fanned out through the trees, that training was coming back. They didn’t bunch up, and although they were talking, they kept their voices down. Not absolute noise discipline, but like the rest, Bromhead ignored it for the moment.

  They filtered through the jungle, moving down to the LZ. It was an easier trip for Bromhead. He kept the pace rapid and didn’t give them a break. When he was close to the LZ, he halted them and entered it on his own. Once Gilman and Hansen were warned that Bromhead and his party was there, Bromhead ordered them into the LZ.

  Gilman and Hansen moved to the equipment and began to separate it into loads for the men. Some of the men, using saplings cut to form poles, were able to pair up and carry a couple of crates. In just a few minutes they were ready to start the trip back to the camp. Bromhead told the headman to lead them, keep the pace steady, but make sure that they didn’t get too far ahead. He wanted the column to remain together as much as possible.

  As the men moved out, Bromhead grabbed Gilman. “I want you to stick here for a while. Make sure we’ve left nothing on the LZ that will identify us to the enemy. Then follow at a short distance so that we can get a reading on how much noise these guys make.”

  “I’d bet, sir, that they can glide through the jungle without a sound if they want.”

  “You’re probably right. See if they leave any signs. Pick up anything they might drop.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bromhead was about to caution him about calling him sir, but then decided against it. In South Vietnam, the officers always tried to do nothing that would call attention to them. They didn’t point, tried to stay clear of the radio, and didn’t require saluting. But here these things might become important. It might become a way of establishing and maintaining authority.

  So, instead of any of that, Bromhead said, “Just don’t get yourself lost or captured here.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “See you at the village.” Bromhead hurried after the men, joined the rear of the formation and watched them climb the trail leading home. The pace uphill seemed faster than it had been down. Bromhead wondered if the men were hurrying so that they could break into the crates and grab the weapons and ammo.

  Bromhead watched the column, fascinated. The heat, humidity and altitude didn’t seem to bother them. They didn’t sweat, nor was any of them breathing hard. They ran up the hill, carrying the loads that should have slowed them considerably. And the closer they got to the village, the faster they seemed to move.

  As they approached the village, Bromhead began to see and hear signs of it. Signs that hadn’t been visible or audible in the early morning hours. Smoke from a dozen or more campfires worked its way into the sky, marking the ville. Women and children were laughing and shouting. There were bleatings and bellowing from the animals. From somewhere came the discordant music favored by some of the people of Asia. The annoying sounds penetrated the jungle and Bromhead wondered why a village that was so primitive would have a radio. It had to be battery-powered since there was no other electricity available and was probably some form of government propaganda. A gift to the poor.

  They came out of the jungle, crossing the open ground toward the village. As the first group of men entered it, the
y were met with wild cheering. The males who had been left behind had not been idle. They had been organizing a celebration. They had selected a water buffalo and staked it in the middle of the village. They were waiting for the return of the men before they began the ritual of beating it to death.

  Bromhead hurried to the head of the column to speak to the leader. “We need to store the equipment somewhere so it will be protected. Somewhere out of the rain.”

  “We give to the men. They protect it.”

  “No,” said Bromhead. “First we must store it and check it all. Then as we form the strike force, we will issue the equipment. But first we must check it. We have to make sure that we got all we are entitled to.”

  The man nodded as if he saw the wisdom of that, and ordered his men to take the rifles and ammo and supplies to a long, empty hootch in the middle of the village. This thatched structure was used as the sleeping quarters for visitors. It was situated in the center of the ville where the men could protect it and where their visitors could sleep in safety.

  Bromhead moved to the interior of the hootch to watch the men bring in the boxes. He didn’t want anyone raiding the equipment. Issuing it would become a ritual to mark the completion of a portion of the training. It would be a reward for a job well done. If he allowed the men to steal from him, it would undermine what he needed to do.

  The interior of the hootch was bare. The floor of split logs was rough and through gaps in it, he could see the ground. The thatch was thick and there was a platform of blackened stone at one end for a fire. Part of the wall was reinforced with stone and there was a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. Bromhead suspected that the hootches for guests burned down frequently if people built fires in them.

  Once all the equipment was stacked inside, Bromhead left Hansen in charge to count and examine the equipment. He side-stepped a foul-smelling puddle of water, avoided a fence of woven branches loaded with thorns and approached the headman who was studying the water buffalo. To the left, Bromhead could see the white woman, who now wore a brightly colored bra. He smiled to himself, finding it difficult to avoid staring at her. He noticed that she had washed herself and combed her hair. It was pulled back off her face in a ponytail.