Cambodian Hellhole (15 page)

It would be futile, of course, to attempt a sneak attack when the only exit from the compound was completely exposed, but the commandant obviously felt obliged to try his hand.

So be it.

They could not afford to play tag with the patrol all day and night, could not expend the time it would take to lead them on a merry chase across the countryside.

The troops would have to die. It was as simple as that. And when they did not return to the compound, what then?

Loughlin was not sure, but he imagined the commandant would have given them most of the afternoon to conduct a thorough search of the surrounding forest. Even that would not be truly adequate for what they had in mind—a clever, silent enemy could keep one step ahead of them for days on end, leading them right around in circles—but he felt certain that the commandant would want them back by nightfall.

They were dealing with a cautious man in there, perhaps a little frightened of the unknown waiting for him in the jungle.

That was good. His fear, expressed in terms of hesitation at a vital moment, could work to their advantage when the time came to break Stone and the others out of their jungle prison.

But for now, this moment, grim survival was the top priority . . . and that meant that the patrol, every last man of it, would have to be expunged without a trace.

Annihilated.

Wiped out.

He finished threading the silencer into place and soundlessly worked the action of the pistol, chambering one of the hollow-point long-rifle rounds.

The .22 was vastly underrated as a killer, often dismissed even by professionals who should know better as a child's or ladies' gun, incapable of putting full-grown men away. The truth was rather different: ballistics, range, and the workability of fairly simple silencers made the lowly cartridge first choice among many of the world's top professional assassins, Mafia and otherwise. With practice and a bit of luck, you could hunt big game with .22s, although it definitely was not recommended.

Today Loughlin had somewhat smaller game in mind. But size was no index of lethal capabilities; the warrior knew that much from grim experience.

There were three of them when they at last appeared around a bend in the trail, and they were taking the point, letting the other six catch up. Strung out along the trail that way, they minimized the risk of getting caught in one apocalyptic ambush—but they also cut the chances of one group's being able to reinforce the others before lethal damage was done by the opposition.

Loughlin hoped to reinforce that lethal lesson for them very soon. Almost immediately, in fact.

He let them draw abreast of him, one man slightly forward of the other two, who hung back and whispered between themselves. He did not have to understand their words to know that even this slight distraction from their duty would be enough to let him get in firing range.

He lifted slightly to his left, lining up his first target, sighting on the lead man. He zeroed in his autoloader's sights at a point directly behind the right ear, just below the lip of his pith helmet.

And he squeezed off, not waiting to see the results as he swung the pistol away and in the direction of his second target, tracking by instinct.

The first man never knew what hit him. One instant he was poised for another step along the trail, and then something struck him behind the ear with freight-train force, coring through his brain and leaving him so much dead meat on the hoof, tumbling facedown on the trail without a chance to sound an alarm or reach his weapon.

The other two were confused by what had happened, and did not immediately realize that their companion had been shot. Instead, they seemed to think that he had stumbled on a vine or stepped in a small hole. One of them was reaching out a hand to help his comrade up, smiling, about to laugh at his predicament, when grim reality punched through his left eye socket and drove him over backwards on his rump.

And number three had no more doubts concerning what was going on. He reached the pistol grip of his assault rifle, and actually had it off its sling and level at his waist, when two hot rounds in quick succession came stinging in and struck him in the temple, lifting his helmet as they exited the other side in twin geysers of blood. He fell in the middle of the game trail without a sound. Stone-cold dead.

Loughlin turned away, shunning the trail as he began to make his silent way back through the jungle. The others still might need some help, an extra gun, and he was ready, his own kills accomplished. He was hunting, following the scent of blood to other game, ready for the kill.

L
on Ky was ready and waiting when the sounds from up the trail informed him clearly that Loughlin had engaged the point men. He did not wait, did not hesitate, but immediately sprang out on the trail, directly behind the three men who were moving past his place of concealment.

He came in behind them, closing on their blind side with a rush so sudden that they never really heard it coming until it was much too late for an effective countermeasure. Without a silenced weapon, knowing that a gunshot now would bring troops pouring out of the compound to confront them, he had opted to use his machete, brandishing it overhead like a scimitar as he raced down the game trail on their heels.

Grim death was on top of them before they could react, hacking and slashing among them like a wild man, never pausing to think or wonder if the Hmong were holding their positions off to either side. He had informed them in no uncertain terms that these pigs were his, that his own men should intervene only if he was killed or incapacitated, or if the pigs seemed likely to escape or raise an alarm that he could not prevent.

He had them to himself now, just the way he wanted it, slashing at the Vietnamese bastards who had defiled his homeland, uprooted the popular government, and installed a puppet in Phnom Penh.

The first man turned, his rifle already out and ready to fire, gripped in both hands.

And Lou Ky took both hands off at the wrists, with a single sweeping blow of his machete, leaving long gouts of blood pumping from the severed stumps.

The man was about to scream, but he never got the chance. After severing his hands, Lon Ky swung the long knife back around, overhand in a looping blow, and brought it down directly on the crown of the soldier's skull, easily slicing through his sun helmet, encountering a bit more resistance from the skull itself. The blade finally stopped at a point midway between the dead man's nostrils, but by then its job was done.

He ripped it free, already spinning, slashing at his other two opponents, giving them no time to recover from the initial shock of watching their friend die, taking them apart with rapid, hacking blows.

Number two was close, and Lon Ky hit him with a slashing backhand that cut across his face at mouth level, opening a ghastly smile from ear to ear. Solid cheekbones prevented any fatal damage from the chop, but the soldier sat down hard, stunned, with thick blood streaming down his chin and over his chest, dyeing his fatigues a deep crimson.

Turning quickly to face number three, his final adversary, Lon Ky brought the machete up in both hands and swung it down, lopping off half of the frightened soldier's skull and face with one swift incision. He staggered backward, loose brains spilling down over one shoulder, already dead before he collapsed into the underbrush on the side of the trail.

Finally turning back to his second victim, Lon Ky found him still alive, sitting upright on the muddy trail and trying vainly to repair the irreparable with bloody, fumbling fingers.

Standing over him, Lon Ky spat on the soldier, cursing him with feeling, watching as uncomprehending eyes turned up to plead with him.

The machete rose and fell, rose and fell, rose . . .

Lon Ky had demons of his own to exorcise, and he was working them out, chanting all the while as he hacked away at the limp and lifeless form stretched out at his feet. "Traitor . . . scum . . . traitor . . . scum . . ."

H
og Wiley was waiting in ambush as the last three members of the patrol passed by him on the game trail, following the others who had gone before them. Others who would be dead by now, or very shortly, if his companions did their jobs.

Wiley had no fears along those lines.

He moved out of concealment, closing in behind the last three members of the squad. Wiley did not have his rifle unslung. He did not intend to use it unless there was no viable alternative, and even then he would do so with reluctance.

Up ahead of him there were sounds of violent struggle on the trail, and a strangled cry, suddenly cut off as by a falling guillotine. The soldiers were reacting, glancing back and forth at one another, preparing to advance . . . or perhaps to run away.

Wiley made the choice for them, coming in silent, swift and deadly from behind, ramming his Ka-Bar knife deep into the small of one trooper's back, slashing outward, twisting to make sure he got the kidneys, spine, intestines with his ripping thrust. The man cried out, but softly, like a wounded child, and fell to his knees.

Two other faces turned to gape at him, and both of the enemies were fumbling with their weapons as he reached them. One almost had his gun up, and Hog knocked it aside, sent it spinning into the undergrowth and out of reach, slashing back and forth across the man's lower face and exposed throat with the big knife. Dark blood fountained from the ragged wounds, drenching both of them, dribbling through Hog's beard and matting down his whiskers.

The Vietnamese stumbled backward and Hog followed him down, taking time out to smash his companion with his other fist and send him sprawling, dazed and on the verge of total blackout. Bearing down upon his second target, Hog drove the knife blade into his chest, skewering lungs and heart until the dummy pinned beneath him no longer twitched in response. He was dead as hell, and Wiley turned away from him, no longer beating a dead horse, advancing on the one remaining trooper who could pose some threat to them in this world of the here and now.

The guy was struggling to rise, up on one knee and both hands now, shaking his head to clear it and flinging off a spray of blood from flattened nostrils in the process.

Hog kicked the soldier in the ribs, flipping him over onto his back in the middle of the trail. He could feel ribs giving way on impact, ripping into lungs and other vital organs. The guy might well be on his way to death already, but Hog damned sure could not take a chance on letting Mother Nature do the dirty work.

He bent down, pressed the tip of his knife against the adversary's Adam's apple, and pressed it home. Blood spurted everywhere, soaking into the earth.

At last, satisfied that this one would not be making any more noise, Hog stepped back from his kill, wiped the Ka-Bar on his fatigue pants, and surveyed the carnage he had wrought.

There was disposal work to do, but he would leave that to the Hmong. No one would find the missing troopers until they were finished with their business across the river, inside the prison camp. And after that . . .

Hog frowned to himself.

Hell, after that, win or lose, it would not matter in the least whether anyone found them or not.

The nine men of the search patrol we're out of it forever. Canceled. Null and void.

For the living, the trials had only just begun.

S
tone pushed the ore cart on another yard or two and stopped, almost collapsing across it as the Vietnamese political prisoners moved forward to relieve him, picking at the chunks of rock and ore inside. He took the opportunity to catch his breath.

Two guards assigned to watch the adit were eyeballing him now, whispering among themselves, perhaps deciding whether it would be worth their while to hassle him before the cart was unloaded. One of them nodded to the other, making up his mind at last, and he was moving in Stone's general direction, barking at the other prisoners as he came, when the commander of the guard detail suddenly emerged from the mine.

Turning back to face the shaft itself, he raised a whistle to his lips and blew a shrill, echoing blast that reverberated down the stygian tunnel. Inside, Stone could hear the guards barking at the P.O.W.'s, tools clattering as they were dropped on the spot.

Slowly, by twos and threes, the prisoners were emerging, forming their two-abreast ranks outside the mine. The guard who had been moving toward him reached him now, and nudged Stone roughly with his rifle butt in the direction of the loose formation.

Stone found his place from the morning, between Lynch and Page, and fell into line. Another moment passed as the guards did a head count, making certain that no one had tried to hang back in the darkness of the mine, to slip away later when the guards were gone, and then the commander of the detail blew his whistle again, pointing a bony finger down the trail in the direction of the compound.

And so they started back for camp. The workday was over, and Stone felt excitement rising in him with the knowledge that his men would make their move tonight. One way or another, they would have to move. They would be running out of time and rations, risking contact with hostile patrols every moment they remained in place without striking.