The Point Team (6 page)

The NVA would guess that the landing party would not stay put on any account, Campbell thought as he made his way, but they
could not tell on which side of the clearing they might approach or whether they would head off in some other direction. On
their part, they would know that
he, Campbell, had no idea or only the sketchiest notion of their deployment and numbers. Campbell was fairly sure of just
one thing. Their strength and intentions would be tested by the enemy fairly soon. Like any moment now.

As they moved, they searched the trees for snipers, scanned the ground for trip wires and sharpened sticks, peered through
the undergrowth ahead and on the side for shadowy forms, glanced back over their shoulders to make sure the man behind had
not died silently … They clutched their Ml6s in sweaty palms, the selectors switched to full automatic. Frayed nerves had
cut their reaction time down to almost zero. At that moment, anything moving in the forest and not instantly recognizable
would have bought it in a big way with at least ten pounds of lead.

The man at point dropped to the ground, and those behind him broke for cover. In a few minutes, the man at point crawled back,
and the colonel and sergeant crawled forward to meet him.

“They haven’t seen us,” the soldier said.

“How many of them?” Campbell asked.

“Five. And same as us, they’re spread in a file, about a hundred yards front to back. Coming right at us.”

“Are they coming fast?” Campbell asked.

“No. They’re on tiptoe. Scared as shit. We got three or four minutes.”

“We got to take ‘em, sir,” the sergeant said. “We need the room to move.”

“Take charge, Harper.” The colonel pulled his machete from its scabbard and crawled rapidly forward with the point man.

As he passed each of the forward men, he gestured to his machete and whispered, “Let ’em all come through. I make the first
move.”

Campbell brought the point man with him to the advance position in case, as he said, “There’s more than five of them.”

There were no birds or animals in the midday forest heat
to give away their hidden presence. The men simply lay in the silence, waiting, making neither sound nor movement.

The North Vietnamese army scouts came into view, taking one step at a time, looking around them, skittery as deer in the hunting
season. Campbell could see the taut face and neck muscles of their man at point. His eyes darted here and there beneath his
peaked cloth cap, and he held his AK47 in one hand for a moment as he beckoned the others to follow him. After only a few
paces, he paused to listen. He probably figured that since Americans were big and noisy, if he couldn’t hear them they weren’t
there.

He passed only fifteen feet away from Campbell. Another man in the colonel’s position would have sworn he’d be visible to
the North Vietnamese, but Campbell knew better. As long as he made no movement, his camouflaged fatigues broke up his outline
enough to let him merge into the background. The NVA regular passed him and the American point man, passed the next man, and
moved on, watching and listening, listening…

Those following forged ahead more confidently than their leader, reassured that when the shit hit the fan their point man
would be the first to go—they would have a chance to duck, shoot, or run.

The fifth man approached Campbell. The colonel’s long, lean body suddenly extended up out of the undergrowth like the deadly
strike of a pit viper. Campbell swung the machete as he came, and the bright steel curved in an arc and whacked into the soldier’s
skull with the sound of an ax sinking into a log. The only other sound was the rattle of the man’s equipment as he fell.

Swift, silent, and lethal, the other Green Berets nailed their victims seconds after the colonel disposed of his. Except one
man. Campbell looked back at the sound of the struggle. The North Vietnamese soldier had fended off the blow of the machete
with his AK47 rifle. When the American tried to raise the machete blade for a second
blow, he found it embedded in the wood stock of the rifle. As they struggled, the North Viet fell backward, with the American
on top of him. The Green Beret released his hold on the machete, gripped the AK47 at either end, and forced it down across
the throat of his opponent.

The North Viet tried desperately to push the rifle up but could not. As the weapon pressed firmly down, constricting the man’s
windpipe, he clawed wildly at his attacker’s eyes. He only succeeded in scratching his face before his own death throes canceled
out his counterattack. His eyes protruded and his tongue stuck out as his body convulsed, and he made an inhuman croak in
an unsuccessful attempt to suck in air.

Campbell stood over the dying man and said to the Green Beret killing him, “You call this a professional job?”

The Green Beret glanced up without releasing pressure on the rifle. “No, sir. Sorry about that.” And returned to finishing
him off.

They left the five bodies half-concealed by the undergrowth and pushed on again in the direction from which the machine gun
had fired at the chopper. As before, the five-man scouting party preceded the main group. Progress was slow—however, no one
criticized that, since one oversight or mistake made in a moment of eagerness or bravado could cost the lives of all twenty
Special Forces operatives there on the ground. The only reason all these men were alive and fit to walk around was that they
weighed all the chances before they took them, and paused for a second look before jumping in.

Campbell’s strategy was simple yet effective and familiar to all the men. They had to locate the main body of North Vietnamese
troops, engage them from a distance, and call in the gunships to soften them up with rocket and machine-gun fire. Then the
Special Forces would overrun their position, wipe out as many as they could, and head back to the clearing fast to be evacuated.
When such
hit-and-run tactics worked, they were devastating to the enemy. When something went wrong, it was usually a big disaster
for the attacking force.

The Viet Cong would have faded into the forest and would not have stayed to fight it out. But the North Vietnamese army regulars
had more men, better weapons, and a different style of fighting than the Cong. Campbell knew they would never have sent a
scouting party against him if they had intended to run. They meant to fight. He listened. Nothing. Both sides were maintaining
a radio silence. They had disposed of the five enemy soldiers without a shot being fired to warn the main body of North Vietnamese.
They now had some room to move in.

“We’ll keep moving in a straight line,” he whispered to the sergeant. “If they spot us and we don’t see them, they’ll probably
cut around behind us to take possession of the clearing so we can’t be lifted out by air. With the clearing as a landmark,
the airstrikes will be easy.”

The sergeant said nothing. He knew that if the North Viets were all that predictable, the colonel wouldn’t be bothering to
explain things to him. An officer, even one like Mad Mike, never bothered to justify his actions if he thought everything
was going to be easy.

They moved on slowly through the forest, every man watching the man in front of him, glancing back at the one behind, peering
into the green depths at something that might have moved, avoiding a small mound of leaves that might conceal an antipersonnel
mine … A gunship passed overhead and was gone—they could hear it circle in the distance. Their footfalls in the dead leaves
were strangely loud, and all about him Campbell felt the huge, alien, hostile world of Asia in the heat, the leaves, the unknown
…

The man at point raised a hand for those behind him to stop. Then he suddenly wheeled about and ran wildly back through the
trees! The other scouts zigzagged through the growth right after him. There could be no doubt they had been seen and were
getting their asses out of there as fast
as possible. The sergeant called up the men behind him so that the long line of men now formed into a knot of solid resistance.

Right behind the escaping men came a horde of NVAs in full charge, bayonets fixed to their AK47s. Their officer had obviously
spotted only a few of the Americans and had wanted to take them out silently so as not to warn the others. Campbell waited
till the last of the five forward men got back to them and opened up on the NVAs who were now no more than thirty yards away.
Other Green Berets opened up with their automatic rifles and grease guns, and the first few rows of North Vietnamese were
almost sawed in half by the Special Forces fire power.

“Hell! There’s got to be sixty, seventy of ’em!” the sergeant howled as the NVAs kept coming in a solid wave, many of them
firing now from their AK47s, but still intent on skewering the Americans with their bayonets.

Campbell pushed a fresh magazine into his M16 and sprayed it into the chests of the oncoming troops. Men fell, but the rest
came jumping over them, eyes wild, their bayonets like a mouth of shark’s teeth. Campbell changed magazines again as they
were almost within touching distance of him. He pulled on the trigger. Nothing happened. His M16 had jammed. He dropped the
rifle and hauled out his machete.

He swung it two-handed in a circle over his head, gave a loud yell, and came at the NVAs.

When Campbell came to, he picked himself off the ground and looked about him.

Tina was looking up from her magazine at him, blowing cigarette smoke out her nostrils.

“You fell out of bed,” she said. “Which dream was it this time?”

“Bayonet charge,” he answered.

She smiled sympathetically. “Get yourself a beer and sit down with me.”

He took a bottle of Dos Equis from the refrigerator, bit the metal cap off with his teeth, and swallowed half the contents.
He put the bottle on the table.

“Guess I woke you earlier on, kicking and shoving?” he asked.

“You got it, Colonel.”

“Sorry.”

He kissed her on the cheek and ran his palms over her bare shoulders, looking down at her breasts beneath the fabric of her
loose-fitting nightdress. She put down the magazine she had been reading, clasped his wrists, and guided his hands down over
the smooth, warm orbs whose nipples hardened to his touch.

He kissed her for a while and then reached down to lift her effortlessly and carry her to the bed. He exorcised the demons
from his mind in the pleasure and beauty of her body.

“A long distance call, sir,” the manservant told William Vanderhoven. “It’s Mr. Boggs, from Switzerland.”

The manservant placed a telephone on the side table beside the old billionaire, lifted the receiver, pressed the lighted extension
button, and said, “Mr. Vanderhoven will speak to you now.”

He wiped the ear- and mouthpieces with a white linen cloth before handing his boss the receiver.

“Boggs, where the hell are you?”

“In Bern, sir. That certain party has refused all direct contact. All communications have to be through the Swiss.”

“I remember. I’m not senile yet, Boggs.”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

“Well?”

“Not good news, sir.”

“Stop shilly-shallying! Give me the details, man!”

“Certainly, sir.” Boggs paused before doing so. “The particular party I’ve been referring to refuses to cooperate on two grounds.
The first is the attitude of the subject—”

“Boggs, talk straight! You mean Eric?”

“I’m worried about security over the phone lines, sir.”

“To hell with security. What’s wrong with Eric’s attitude?”

“They say he is unrepentant for his crimes against Marxism and he did something else against Leninism—I couldn’t quite follow
the ideology involved. When you listen to all the intellectual crimes with which he is accused, it’s hard to realize he’s
only a thirteen-year-old.”

“That’s their style, Boggs. What’s the second ground for their refusal?”

“Eh—eh, you, sir.”

“Me!”

“They claim your companies made napalm and other war-related substances which were used against them by the U.S. Armed Forces.”

“So?”

“Before they are willing to consider Eric’s release, they insist that you make a public apology to them for this and make
financial reparations to the present communist government.”

Boggs waited and heard only a sputtering noise. He added quickly, “I’ll tell the intermediary, sir, that you will not tolerate
such impertinence.”

“Be sure you do, Boggs.”

Boggs felt relieved by the cold, grating tone in Vanderhoven’s voice, which told him the old man had regained control of himself.
“Might I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“I think it’s a waste of time trying to deal with these Vietnamese communists, sir, especially here. Perhaps I would do better
than before if I return to Washington, though I have my doubts.”

“That’s a waste of time, Boggs.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what I think, too. Which is why I checked into a possible backup—an alternative, so to speak—”

“Get to the point, Boggs.”

“Yes, sir. I meant sending in a group of your own, sir, if you get my meaning.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man?”

“I’ve left an envelope marked ‘alternative’ on the top shelf of the wall safe, sir. You will find all the details there.”

“Come back to New York without delay, Boggs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mike Campbell peered out of the plane window as the aircraft veered around the end of Manhattan. The twin towers of the World
Trade Center were off by themselves a little away from the rest of the Wall Street skyscrapers. A foggy haze hung over the
middle of the island, just above the midtown group of tall buildings—the Empire State Building and the Chrysler were still
the most individual and recognizable among all their younger neighbors.

The elderly woman in the window seat commented wistfully, “It all looks so orderly and peaceful from up here.”

“That’s the view from heaven, ma’am.”

She sighed. “I think you may be right. There’s times when I think the Good Lord just can’t be aware of what’s going on.”