The Point Team (26 page)

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 observation?”

“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.

The ten Hmong threw caution to the winds. They ran forward in twos and threes, without shooting for fear of hitting one another,
bayonets fixed and teeth bared. Three descended on the Montagnard in the most forward position, drove their bayonets into
him repeatedly, and all together lifted him from the ground and threw his lifeless body aside, like farmers pitching straw
with hayforks.

“Hold your fire!” Campbell yelled, as the Hmong overran the Montagnard’s positions. “Waller, you want to kill commies? Go
get ’em, boy!”

Waller took off like a thoroughbred from a starting gate, and in a matter of seconds was driving the shining steel of his
bayonet in living communist flesh, withdrawing it covered in scarlet life’s blood, waving the gory blade in a grotesque parody
of a red flag while screaming obscenities about Marx, then plunging the tempered steel again and again into the writhing,
screaming, turncoat tribesmen.