The Point Team Page 20

  The peasants had returned to collect their dead, and the eerie, nocturnal cries were caused by the grief of women as they recognized the dead faces of loved ones and hugged the wet corpses tightly in their arms.

  Chapter 18

  THE Hmong had argued quietly but volubly among themselves in the reeds, with much pointing to the various peaks on the far side of the valley. At last some consensus was reached.

  “I don’t know what they’re saying,” Verdoux told Campbell. “They’ve switched dialects on me and they’re talking too fast, but it seems like they may remember the mountains ahead.”

  This turned out to be the case. One of the Hmong spoke to Verdoux and explained that the border checkpoint was five kilometers down the road, at the river crossing. The officially recognized border was the tips of the mountain range, but the Vietnamese had expanded westward into Laos for convenience. The three helicopters that attacked were Vietnamese, not Laotian, according to the Hmong. Viets killed Lao people like that when they could get away with it.

  The Hmong said he would lead everyone alongside the road for about a kilometer. Then he would branch out to the northeast from it on one of the many paths across the rice fields. They would have to traverse the area of cultivated fields in total darkness, he said, cross the river and climb through rice fields again on the other side. When they reached rough country at the highest upland extent of the fields, they would wait for the moon. The first quarter would be out for a few hours later in the night. They would travel into the mountains by moonlight.

  This sounded like a grueling journey to Mike, but he saw no way to avoid it. Shuffling along on narrow paths in almost total darkness, they constantly whispered to each other in order to maintain contact—like birds make sounds for each other while migrating in the night skies. The river at the bottom of the valley was only ankle deep, and there were fewer rice fields to be negotiated on the far side of the valley. All of them, including the Hmong, were exhausted and high-strung when they settled in rough ground to await the rising of the moon.

  Mike ordered them to eat again, to keep their spirits and energy up. Again, this order was greeted with no enthusiasm. They were getting tired of the cold canned goods that made up their C rations and the blandness of the packaged foods that constituted the K rations.

  “When we get into the mountains, we’ll have a hot meal,” Mike promised.

  “How about roast Vietnamese commie?” Harvey Waller asked.

  “Don’t get weird on us, Harvey,” Joe Nolan said to him.

  They trekked up through a maze of mountain paths in the faint moonlight. Two of the paths were sealed by several strands of barbed wire, and the Hmong turned back.

  “Do not climb under when you see this,” they told Verdoux. “The wire is to warn their own soldiers of a mine field beyond.”

  Once, the Hmong became lost and had to retrace then-steps downhill past several turnings before they found one that led in the correct direction. They rested for an hour in the darkness between the setting of the quarter moon and the gray breath of dawn. As soon as trunks, rocks, roots and other obstacles became distinguishable in the half-light, they pushed on.

  Campbell reckoned that some of the peaks were four thousand feet above sea level and that the pass they were taking through them was close to two thousand feet in altitude. The air was crisp and sharp, smelling of pines and other evergreens that blanketed the slopes.

  Verdoux told Mike, “The Hmong say there are lower, easier passes that are too dangerous to take. Except for occasional aerial reconnaissance, we don’t have to worry from this point on until we’re halfway down the slope on the other side. The Viets prefer to lie in wait down there for smugglers rather than leap about up here like mountain goats.”

  “Sounds to me like a reasonable decision,” Mike commented. “Do we descend the slope? I thought the Montagnard village was high in the mountains.”

  “Not this ridge, I’m afraid. The village is in the next ridge parallel to this one, so we have to descend this one and climb that.”

  They reached the highest point of the pass and, all of a sudden, the rugged panorama of Vietnam stretched before their eyes. They all cheered.

  Nolan added wryly, “We gotta be crazy—cheering because we’re back in Nam. Where the fuck we going anyway, Mike? I’m hardly going to sell the story to Time or Newsweek from out here.”

  Ideally, Campbell would have preferred to keep the goal of the mission secret until they had reached their destination in case any of the team were captured. However, he saw that it was unreasonable for him to demand that grown men go farther with him than they had already gone without knowing the true purpose of the mission.

  Campbell said there was no need for the Hmong to know, and then told them in detail about their planned rescue of Eric Vanderhoven.

  Joe Nolan was aghast. “All this for one shitty rich kid? I don’t believe it. More than fifty people dead already. You drag our asses halfway round the world and put our lives on the line for some freak, half-gook kid whose grandpa is a crap-filled billionaire? To hell with this, Mike. It’s enough to make anyone a communist. What do you take me for?”

  There was a hard glitter in Campbell’s eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was so low that Nolan had to lean forward to catch every word.

  “Joe, I hired you as a merc, not as a social critic or economic reformer. You agreed to come on this mission for a hundred thousand dollars, aware that you had not been informed of its purpose.”

  “Sure, Mike, but I thought we were going in after GIs in concentration camps—you know, MIAs.”

  “Nobody paid us to do that,” Campbell said. “If they had, I would have gone. That’s not the point. I hired you as a merc to do a job—and here’s the point, I’m not going to permit you to back out now.”

  Nolan looked into the calm gray eyes of Mad Mike Campbell and his indignation evaporated.

  “That hundred thou still good?” Joe said jovially, trying not to lose too much face while backing down.

  “Sure.”

  They shook hands.

  “Anyone else got anything to say?” Campbell asked. “Now’s the time to talk about it, not down there.” He pointed to Vietnam. There was silence. Mike went on, “OK, I think we got to grant Joe Nolan that he has a point. We sure as hell seem to be wasting a lot of people in order to save one. And we wouldn’t be trying to save the kid if he wasn’t an heir to a huge fortune. None of that is under your control. Yet one thing is a matter of honor with you. Your word to me that you would come out here with me as a mere. I didn’t pry into your reasons for coming, and you were all desperate to come. Your word to me as a soldier of fortune is worth more than all the supposed social and economic justice that’s always just around the corner and never seems to arrive. Now I want you to know that I am going down into this garbage leftist country and grabbing that kid and taking him back to America, and what’s more, I don’t think Washington, Moscow and Hanoi all combined are going to be able to stop me.”

  The pine forests protected them from the small single-engine planes that droned up and down the valleys and along the mountain slopes in search of them. They met no ground patrols, somewhat to Campbell’s surprise.

  “There’s too much area for them to cover on foot,” Larry Richards opined. “They’re avoiding spreading their men too thin and instead are concentrating them in mobile groups, so that when we’re spotted by air they can concentrate their troops on the single target area. Bob remembers how we did that against the rebels in Malaysia. A number got away unobserved, but when you do locate them, you can really stick it to them.”

  “Damned right,” Bob concurred. “As Larry says, if one of these aircraft sees us, we’ll have a goddamn battalion of Viet army regulars on our heels.”

  “Andre, warn the Hmong about those planes,” Mike said. “Every man freezes till each plane passes over. I don’t want anyone to even scratch himself. You think they carry any sophisticated equipment for observ
ation?”

  “I doubt it,” Joe Nolan volunteered. “Look at those old run-down planes they’re using for recon. Some of them look like they were in World War II.”

  They descended into the steep-walled valley and began to climb up the other side through the thick woods. The sun rose almost directly above them in the cloudless sky, but it was pleasantly cool in the shade of the thick evergreens. The Hmong walked purposefully now, confident of where they were going, and the men climbed silently up the slope on a deep layer of moss and fallen pine needles. They spoke little, weary from their all-night march and all-day trek in mountain terrain.

  The reconnaissance planes vanished before noon. They moved north along the crest of the ridge on a well-beaten path, whether human or animal Mike could not say. Their pace had slowed considerably, and Mike wondered if the others had blisters on their feet like he had. As leader of the mission, he had to be above such minor ailments as sore feet, of course, although he was imagining what it would be like to take off his jungle boots and walk on the damp moss in his bare feet.

  A sudden movement in the bushes to their right … The nearest Hmong whirled about and sent a burst of AK47 automatic fire at chest level into the vegetation. The bushes parted, and a deer with big antlers staggered out, bleeding from four punctures in the chest, and collapsed almost at their feet.

  “This guy should have been in Dodge City,” Harvey Waller said of the Hmong who shot the deer. “That’s the fastest response I’ve ever seen.”

  They all agreed, and Andre explained it to the Hmong, who showed he understood by strutting and quick-drawing an imaginary six-shooter with a delighted grin on his face.

  “How far to the Montagnard camp from here?” Campbell asked Verdoux.

  Verdoux brought back the information. “About ten kilometers. By the way, our colleagues assure us it is safe to light a cooking fire here because the Viets will assume it’s a Montagnard fire if they see it, which is improbable. They would also like to show us how to butcher and cook a deer Hmong-style, should we wish to make camp here for the night. They are being very formal and polite about it, so I told them I would try to persuade you.”

  Mike laughed and sat and began to undo his boots.

  They gorged themselves on the rich, gamey venison and easily consumed the entire red meat of the big deer. Having constructed small shelters of tree branches, they spread ground sheets inside and slipped into the oblivion of sleep soon after sundown. The watches were shared at an hour per man, so that everyone got his fair share of rest.

  They struck camp at the first light and arrived at the Montagnard village without incident shortly after nine. They stayed behind cover and watched the village for a while. The bamboo and thatch huts were large permanent structures, and the fields of vegetables surrounding it were orderly and well tended. Between forty and fifty huts were scattered in a great circle about a clearing, with others randomly placed in outlying positions.

  “What do you think?” Verdoux asked Campbell.

  “No one’s working in the fields. There’s a few men in the village center but no women or children. You notice the chickens running about, but where are the pigs and other more valuable animals? Seems like these folks might be expecting trouble. I think it’s time for a straight talk with the Hmong.”

  “They get evasive and vague on this subject,” Andre warned.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  The Hmong must have known that they could hold out no longer, and Andre broke the news to Mike. “This is the village, all right. However, none of them have ever been here before. Actually, they are very proud of themselves for having guided us here solely on the verbal description of how to do it from another Hmong. He was the one who was originally supposed to lead the group but backed out at the last moment.”

  Mike smiled. “Compliment them from me on their navigation. When was the last time one of their tribal group was in this Montagnard village?”

  “They told me that a group of smugglers were here about this time last year and transacted good business with the Montagnards. The rainy season followed, and after that the smuggling was abandoned as being too risky.”

  “So no one has been in touch for twelve months?”

  Andre nodded.

  “If we didn’t need them to guide us to the reeducation camp,” Campbell said, “I’d skip the place altogether. Also, we need this as a place to rendezvous with the Hmong on the way back. We have no choice but to find out whether it’s secure.” Campbell brought his forces back a bit and indicated to Verdoux he was to translate for the Hmong. “So far, no one has seen us Westerners on communist-occupied turf and survived. I want that record to stand. If these Montagnards have been turned, they must think they are being approached by Hmong alone. That doesn’t mean we’re going to dump on the Hmong. Us six Westerners will spread out in three pairs and take advance firing positions. Then the Hmong go in like they would as if alone, taking whatever precautions they normally would. Let’s go.”

  Campbell and Waller crept down in the central section of the fields, Murphy and Richards on the left flank and Nolan and Verdoux on the right. They were all reasonably certain they had not been seen. Three of the Hmong walked boldly forward and shouted loudly across the fields to those in the village. The other seven Hmong hung back, visible to the village and displaying a suspicious caution in marked contrast to the three men engaged in friendly shouting. The message was clear in any language—we’re friendly fellows, but we carry a lot of clout just in case.

  The men in the village clearing stood still for a few moments, looking at the distant newcomers, then spoke a few words among themselves and headed for several of the huts. After that, the only signs of life were the hens pecking in the ground around the huts.

  The three Hmong shouted loudly and advanced farther. Mike would have worried about the safety of anyone else, but these teen-agers had already shown what they were made of. The seven other Hmong hung back.

  A burst of automatic fire came through the wall of one of the huts. The three Hmong threw themselves flat on the dirt behind whatever cover they could find. Then fire from other huts was directed at the seven Hmong in the background, while about twenty men with automatic rifles and submachine guns poured out of the huts. They charged the three Hmong in the foreground while their companions pinned down the seven in the background. By now it was clear that they had not seen Mad Mike & Co. take up then-positions.

  The others waited for Mike’s gunfire as their signal to start the carnage. Then Mike goofed. He underestimated the speed of the charge of the villagers—he had thought they were dealing with undisciplined peasant fighters, but these were highly trained men, moving quickly and accurately to overrun the position of the Hmong—and unknown to them, the positions of the Western mercs, also. The villagers had gained much more yardage than they ought to have—and were almost on top of Campbell—by the time he opened fire.

  Mike saw their savage, triumphant snarls change to horrified surprise and craven fear as he mowed the nearest of them down at almost point-blank range. When your opponent is homing in on victory and you snatch it from him by surprise, it takes a little bit longer for his mind to sort out his reactions. This gift of a little extra time was all that saved Campbell and his team.

  Verdoux heaved a grenade, and the fragments cut down some of those whose bodies protected the others. And still they came on.

  The attacking Montagnards were firing wildly and shouting loudly, as if this were enough to make their adversaries turn tail and run. As it was, none of Mike’s team could even raise their heads because of the fire of the three plus seven Hmong behind them, who were now sending an erratic hail of lead at a level of about three feet above the ground. As always when fire is heaviest and bullets fly in every direction, certain individuals seem blessed with a magic quality of survival. No matter how unprotected they are or what reckless things they do, nothing hits them. So it was with some of the Montagnards.

  One big
tribesman came right for Campbell, hollering and throwing short bursts from his rifle. Campbell ripped him apart from gut to head with his AK47. The Montagnard’s body literally blew apart, scattering blood, pieces of tissue and bone splinters over Mike’s face and hands. He spat out some fragments from his mouth.

  He used the mangled carcass as cover to bring down another three of the Montagnards. The hill tribesmen suddenly realized that they were taking ninety-percent losses and ran back toward the village.

  “Everyone OK?” Mike called.

  They sounded off.

  “Holy shit,” Nolan added.

  “Should never have happened this way,” Campbell shouted back. “My fault. All the Hmong OK, Andre?”

  “Yes. They want to wipe these bastards out,”

  “They got it.”

  They all moved slowly forward against the village. The remaining villagers joined the survivors of the charge, darting out of the bamboo and thatched huts, laden with weapons, to gain cover behind trees and earthen banks.

  “If we let these bastards dig in, we’ll be here for three days,” Mike yelled. “Andre, tell the Hmong to continue this frontal assault, then you take Nolan and Richards advance on the left flank. I’ll take Murphy and Waller on the right. Good luck.”

  “They’ll be watching for us, Mike,” Andre warned.

  “They better be.”

  The two three-man teams drew fire as they ran from cover to cover on each flank. But the Montagnards couldn’t concentrate on them, because now the ten Hmong no longer had Campbell’s restraining hand to hold them back. Verdoux had translated the words “frontal assault” for them, and that was what they intended to deliver.

  When Campbell saw the Hmong advance in this suicidal assault, he halted his own circling maneuvers and he, Murphy, and Waller provided covering fire. Verdoux and his men, on the left flank, followed suit. Although they only hit one villager, they stopped the others from massacring the advancing Hmong. Each time a Montagnard tried to shoot at them, he found himself ducking the cross fire of the two three-men teams. Nor could the Montagnards retreat. They found themselves pinned down and unable to return fire, while the murderous Hmong bore down on them with all the deadly certainty of a pride of hungry predators.