Ghost War (15 page)

He was very new to this commander business—up until a few months before he’d been a lowly corporal in a truck supply unit, lugging water and food to Minx expeditionary forces operating inside what used to be called Laos. Despite his middle age, he’d been conscripted into the Minx forces a year earlier. Given the most basic of training, he was handed the keys to a supply truck and told he was now a driver.

He’d never fired a gun, never faced an enemy. The extent of his military service had been driving the old Route 7 between Hanoi and the Pathet town of Qientienne and back again. A chronically stiff back, and modern version of saddle sores were his only rewards.

Then Dong got lucky.
Very
lucky.

One night, while returning from Qientienne, he came upon what he first thought was a traffic accident. There were three vehicles, two ancient Jeeps and a supply truck like his own, fused into one big pile of smashed metal and busted glass. There were a total of thirteen bodies lying about, some mangled and crushed, others bleeding, but relatively undisturbed. There was no one else around.

It took Dong a few minutes to figure out that what he’d come upon was not a traffic accident, but an ambush, one in which both sides seemed to have got the last shot in. His main clue was that seven of the dead were dressed in black pajamas and ski masks, the garb of choice for Chinese highwaymen who were known to operate in the general area. The others were apparently civilians. Closer inspection revealed that many of the dead had been shot and
then
run over by vehicles. Others had been stabbed to death. Two figures were still locked in a death embrace, their respective daggers plunged into one another’s chests. In any case, there were no survivors.

Dong was two seconds away from calling in a report to the nearest Minx headquarters, when something stopped him. He would never really know what it was—an unseen force, almost physically removing his fingers from the radio button, and then leading him to the back of the heavily-damaged truck. It was here that he discovered what the ambushers had been gunning for: seventeen large boxes filled with gold bars.

By new world monetary standards, Dong had stumbled upon more than $50 million in gold. What it was doing out there, under limited guard, he would never know. Or care.

Before that time, Dong had not considered himself an insubordinant man. He had respected his father and his elders while growing up, and he respected his superior officers now. Nor did he consider himself a dishonest man. He’d been kettle-maker for most of his adult years, and had charged his customers fair value for his work. And neither did he consider himself a greedy man; he’d plied his wares in a small village near the Chinese border and he had not seen a great deal of money in that time. He never thought he needed it that much.

It went without saying that his duty was to report what he had found and stand guard over it until someone in authority arrived.

But Dong stole the gold anyway.

He barely remembered doing it to this day. It was as if a supernatural force manipulated his hands to lift the heavy boxes out of the demolished truck and put them in his own. The same ghostly force then made him start his truck, put it in gear and hastily drive away.

And it was a spirit that showed him exactly where to bury the fortune in the field near his unit barracks. And the same ethereal presence gave him the balls to march right into CapCom’s main office in Hanoi and announce that he wanted to buy an army and offer its services as part of the Viet Minx.

That’s how things were done in Hanoi these days. No more bullshit about “the endless revolution,” or “the People,” or “socialism.” No—these days CapCom, Inc., would literally sell you an army, and everything needed to go with it: equipment, ammunition, weapons, food, fuel, water, and, of course, troops. And with that army, you went out and did CapCom’s fighting for them.

To those who could afford it, immense power and prestige came with that army. For an army could gain conquests, and conquests meant the spoils of war, and captured territory, which meant taxes, tolls, and whatever valuables came with the land. If the product was right, the operational arm of CapCom, the Minx High Command, would even reimburse you for some especially valuable piece of conquered territory, including expenses. When the campaign was over, you simply wrote them a bill. Depending on the breaks, $50 million dollars could double or even triple very quickly. Dong had seen it with his own unit’s money-hungry officers.

And now he wanted it very much for himself.

He poured himself another cup of tea, and took a sweet biscuit from his breakfast tin. Soon it would be time for him to write up a bill for the conquest of Khe Sanh and present it to the Minx High Command. He’d already added up the figures in his head. The operation had cost him 4,100 troops so far. High casualties were not unexpected in human wave attacks—he was due then a rebate the equivalent of $500 per man. Equipment losses equaled about half the dead-troop fee, and he figured he could charge off at least half his ammunition expenditures as expenses to the High Command. Extra food and water he had to pay himself.

The whole one attack-a-day operation was in the black so far—and he had to do everything in his power to keep it that way. This was why he was trying to take Khe Sanh a little bit at a time, using only light infantry troops, without long-range artillery or air support. Those luxury items were available, but expensive, and the bottom line was what was important in this war. CapCom was a demanding employer, and the competition for lucrative conquests among the other independently-run Minx units was fierce, so holding the line on costs was the only way to go if a commander wanted to turn a profit.

Dong slowly sipped his tea and then turned back to the latest front line reports.

It was time to get back to work.

Bad news walked in the door five minutes later.

It was one of his command staff aides, and the man was visibly trembling. Dong asked him what he wanted and the man let loose with a burst of apologies. Then he got to the doom and gloom: Not only had their most recent attack on Khe Sanh failed to finally overrun the base, there were reports that two large cargo planes had crash-landed on the airstrip, and they had brought some measure of reenforcement to the embattled defenders.

Dong dropped his tea cup onto his lap. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He began ranting.
Who the hell would be flying reenforcements into Khe Sanh? Who the hell cared about the people dying there?

The aide was frozen with fear. “There are unconfirmed reports, sir,” he gulped, “that they might be Americans.”

Dong felt his eyes go wide with fear and befuddlement.

“
Americans?
”

The aide could barely speak at this point. “Our intelligence people say the airplanes are of American manufacture,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “They are painted in strange, garish ways, typical of aircraft flown by the Americans these days.”

Dong was simply astonished. “Why would the Americans come here?” he asked, more to himself than the aide. “For what reason would they want to become entangled in this?”

The aide didn’t know what to do, so he just shrugged. He was certain that Dong would execute him on the spot. This was the usual response of Minx commanders when they were given bad news.

But Dong surprised him.

“Americans are always trouble,” he said, pulling on his chin in gloomy thought. “And bad for business. Maybe they want to take over the place themselves, and then the highway beyond. Maybe they want a cut of our action, or maybe make a separate deal with High Command …”

The aide just shrugged again. “We should wipe them out quickly, sir,” he offered.

“We must ascertain their intentions first,” Dong said. “
That
makes the most business sense. We must learn if they are here to stay. And more importantly, whether more are coming.”

“What shall I do, sir?” the aide asked.

Dong was quiet for a long moment. “Bring me the fastest, most intelligent, most decorated soldier in our corps,” he said finally. “He will volunteer to get very close to the enemy base and be my eyes and ears. I must learn more about these Americans even as we are destroying them.”

Relieved, the aide heartily agreed. “I can process the new orders, sir …”

“Do that,” Dong replied, unsteadily returning to his tea cup, “and then report to the front line. You will take your place in the next human wave attack.”

Khe Sanh

I
T HAD BEEN A
hell of a run.

Hunter, Geraci, and Frost had made their way back across the open 500 yards to the perimeter of the trench works by using the favorable shift in the wind and Hunter’s smoke grenade technique.

Once they were back within range, the enemy sniper and mortar crews opened up on them every time they could be seen through the thinning smoke. It had been another crouch, run, and dive exercise, with each explosive thud hammering home the extremely dangerous situation in which they now found themselves. More than once, Hunter’s finely tuned sixth sense saved them from being hit by incoming mortar rounds.

Finally, they made it to the rotting hull of the Globemaster. Hooking up with the waiting rifle squad, they dashed into the deeper trenches. Weaving their way back through the web of defensive positions, they soon reached the shattered hulk of
Bozo.

It was now the most heavily fortified position on the base. Weapons were poking out of every conceivable orifice; so many, it was almost comical, especially with
Bozo
’s wild circus color scheme and scrolling designs.

Inside the wrecked plane’s great hold, though, it was all business. The crew was working at a feverish pace, as always. Some were adjusting the new gun positions and running ammo or powder or both to the weapons’ systems. Others were posted on the portholes that now lined both sides of the fuselage, machine guns and M-16s at the ready. It was obvious that the
Bozo
crew was ready for whatever the foreseeable future held for them.

After a brief reunion with the
Bozo
gun crew, Hunter, Geraci, Ben, and Frost climbed up to the shattered flight deck and quickly got down to work.

Ben started off, flipping through the pages of his flight notebook, and gave a grim update of the situation aboard
Bozo.
About 50 percent of the electricity and hydraulic power had been restored, and all the heavy weapons would be working or will be working within two hours. Cutting out the new gun ports and the reconfiguration of the weapons around the interior of the hold was finished. Some measure of 360 degree firepower was now available. There was 65 percent of the on board ammunition left. And despite the hellish battle on the runway the previous day, all thirty-six men of the gun and flight crews were in fairly good fighting shape.

It was now Geraci’s turn.

“I’ve got a total of 100 men,” the combat engineer began. “We’ve got six bulldozers, a backhoe, two front-end loaders, and two medium-size cranes. As far as weapons, besides our small arms, we’ve got five TOW launchers, a half dozen 105-mm field howitzers, and about thirty heavy- and light-machine guns. We’re at 100 percent ammo for all of them at the moment. We’ve also got a half ton of TNT, Semtex, and C4.”

Hunter was next.

“What can I say?” he asked with no small irony. “We’re totally pinned down by those fuckers that attacked us yesterday. They hold the hills on three sides and we’d never make it over that mountain behind us—not all of us, anyway. We are, in a word, trapped: there’s really no way out.”

The other men on the flight deck could only shake their heads in agreement.

“And the guys running the show here are really
that
nuts?” Geraci asked after a long pause.

Both Hunter and Ben gave a grim laugh.

“Worse,” Hunter replied. “It’s really looney tunes.”

He quickly repeated some of the unintentionally humorous events they’d witnessed inside the Legion bunker—but stopped in midsentence.

“Something’s up …” he said enigmatically.

At that moment, they heard a low whistle from below. Hunter went to the cockpit and stuck his head out of the smashed window. Below were two of the sentries posted forward of the C-5’s nose. Between them was a French Foreign Legion officer. Hunter immediately recognized him. It was the officer with the long scar on his face that they had seen inside the Legion bunker.

“We caught him poking around our perimeter,” one guard reported.

“I am Captain Jacques Zouvette,” the Frenchman called up to Hunter. “I must talk with you.”

Hunter thought it over for a moment, then gave the sentries the high sign.

“OK, bring him up.”

Five minutes later, the Legionnaire officer was standing before them. His uniform was in slightly better shape than the Legion soldiers in the line trenches, but he was just as thin and haggard. He was sweating profusely—it was getting hot outside as the blazing sun rose higher in the sky.

“My apologies to you all,” he began in thick English. “I don’t think you saw a true representation of the defensive forces here. I would like to correct that if I may.”

Hunter eyed him closely. The haunted eyes and the scar running the length of his left cheek spoke volumes of this man’s combat experience. There was something honest-looking about him.

“Can you tell us exactly what is going on here?” Hunter asked him.

The Legion officer gratefully sat down.

“I can try,” he said.

As they listened to his story for the next ninety minutes, there was no disagreement among them—they had landed in one of the most indefensible positions imaginable. The ridges to the west and the jungle-covered hills to the north and east were held, not by the Viet Minh, as the colonel in the bunker had called them, but by “liberation” forces, nicknamed the “Viet Minx.” The Minx were a collection of well-equipped fanatical armies, subcontracted by a partnership of ruthless Asian warlords called “CapCom.” These warlords stopped at nothing in their quest to conquer the entire country—and, ironically, in the face of their Marxist predecessors, make a profit doing so. Many of the long-rumored offshore oil and gas deposits in and around Vietnam had been found in the past five years—now the country had the potential to be the Kuwait of Southeast Asia. And even in the unstable conditions around the world, oil was still king.