Jungle Rules (17 page)

“Probably till daylight,” King Rat said. “You got ample room in this position so’s one of you can kinda kick back and sleep. Me and Henry and Elvis, we be sittin’ up mostly. Packed pretty tight. Back a few weeks ago, when we still had old Houndog with us, it be me and Henry over there an Houndog and Elvis over here.”

O’Connor laughed. “I knew Elvis had to have a hound dog around here someplace.”

“Yeah, old Houndog, he was a pretty cool guy,” King Rat said sullenly, shifting his eyes down as he spoke.

“He rotate back Stateside?” asked O’Connor cheerily.

“Naw, we lost old Houndog about two weeks ago,” the sergeant said, looking at the ground. “He and Elvis, they got put on one of these cooks ’n’ bakers patrols, you know, just a close-in security check around the fringes. Anyway, some damned gook got lucky and just picked him off. Shot him through the heart, where he had his flak jacket opened up. You know, hot and all. Had it unzipped. He died just about the time he hit the ground. Old Elvis over there, he ain’t said hardly shit since then. Maybe two words in two weeks.”

Kirkwood and O’Connor squatted and looked at the dirt, too.

“Shit don’t mean nothing, no way,” King Rat said, looking up. “We take it as it come. You know. That’s all a man can do.”

“Sorry about old Houndog, Elvis,” Kirkwood said, and put his hand on the Marine’s shoulder.

“You a couple of nice guys for officers,” Henry then spoke, having not uttered a word through the entire day and night that the two captains had seen him.

“Thanks, Henry,” O’Connor said, and smiled at the three Marines. “All we know is what we learned at Quantico, at the Basic School. So don’t be shy about setting us straight if we need it. I’ll do my best by you. Like Major Danger said, we gotta depend on each other, Marines first.”

“Good to know, Captain,” Elvis then said.

“Yeah, Skipper,” King Rat said, nodding his head. “Good to know. You gentlemen need anything, just give us a whistle.”

Squatting on their heels, the two captains watched the three enlisted Marines scramble to the other fighting position, twenty yards to their left, dragging the M60 machine gun, several cans of ammunition, and their individual rifles with them.

 
FIRST LIEUTENANT JIMMY Sanchez had divided his reconnaissance platoon into a quartet of four-man sections, leaving seven men in his command element, including Tommy McKay, the platoon’s navy hospital corpsman, Petty Officer First Class Ted Hamilton, and his radio operator, Lance Corporal Bobby Sneed, and a four-man fire team. His platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Paul Rhodes, had the first of the four-man reconnaissance teams, and responded on the radio net with the call sign Cobra. Sergeant Lionel McCoy had team two, answering to the call sign Mamba. Corporal Kenny Price had team three, answering to the call sign Bushmaster. Corporal Floyd Bennett headed team four, answering to the call sign Rattler. Jimmy Sanchez had the call sign Snake Charmer.

Sanchez, T. D. McKay, and the twenty-two-man reconnaissance platoon had spent the greater part of the day moving westward from the base camp southwest of Con Thien. During Operation Kingfisher, they had reconnoitered this same area that took them to the eastern fringe of a territory patrolled by elements of the Third Marine Regiment. That territorial limit now marked the boundary of their new operational theater, overseen by the Ninth Marine Regiment, which had the name Kentucky. West in the Third Marines’ tactical area of responsibility, the region had the name Lancaster. Two simultaneous operations took place, and Jimmy Sanchez carefully positioned his Marines so they did not mistakenly walk from Kentucky into Lancaster, and fall under fire from otherwise friendly forces.

Once in position, the lieutenant scattered out his four mobile teams along a line running east and west more than five kilometers long, patrolling in a northerly direction. With their exposed skin painted various shades of green, and moving swiftly and silently, each of the reconnaissance sections worked their way toward the Demilitarized Zone. Sanchez and his command element set their position near the crest of a mountain in the center of the five-kilometer fan. From there he sent out his command section’s four-man team, led by Corporal Lynn Sanders, call sign Viper, forward of his position to scout.

Throughout the night, as each team reached mandatory reporting points, based on time and position triggers, the respective section leaders radioed Sanchez with short-range, VHF walkie-talkies, giving him a fix on their locations. From his station he plotted his map, showing each team’s advance through their mission objectives. Hour by hour, as he kept track of his platoon’s progress, scouting the region, searching for enemy activity, the reconnaissance lieutenant kept note of how the various positions related to a series of rally points and helicopter landing sites he also had plotted on his map.

The rally points served as locations where his force could consolidate, establish their best defense, and make a hasty departure by air, should the enemy make contact with them and pursue in force. As part of his patrol briefing, prior to their leaving the Con Thien base camp that morning, he made sure that not only did his platoon sergeant and noncommissioned officers have the rally points and associated landing sites marked on their maps, but also that T. D. McKay had a clear idea of their locations, call signs, and emergency radio codes. A thorough leader, Sanchez always planned for the worst cases while he sought the best results.

“Cobra, Snake Charmer,” the radio squawked into the handset that Bobby Sneed, a six-foot, three-inch-tall, 265-pound communications Marine with curly yellow hair, held to his ear.

“Go ahead, Cobra,” the radioman, who had the nickname Baby Huey, said in a low murmur, holding his mouth close to the handset and cupping his fingers over his lips while he spoke.

“Checkpoint Bravo, no joy,” Staff Sergeant Rhodes, a medium-sized man who occasionally smoked a pipe and wore military-issue, black plastic framed glasses, spoke softly.

As the signal came to the radio, Jimmy Sanchez, a small-framed but solid man whose black hair and dark eyes spoke of his Latino heritage, had instinctively leaned his head next to the handset, too, so he could hear the report. Then he glanced at his buddy, Tommy McKay, a brown-haired, stockily built man with a bull neck and barrel chest. Although of average height, standing an inch and a half shy of six feet tall, the lawyer carried nearly 225 pounds of fat-free muscle on his frame. He quietly sat staring into the darkness with his AR15 carbine, a cut-down version of an M16, resting across his unusually massive thighs.

“Pretty boring stuff,” Sanchez whispered to McKay. “More often than not, we spend most nights doing the same thing. No joy. Just empty terrain. Life in recon is said to be ninety percent boredom punctuated by ten percent sheer terror.”

“Nothing in between?” McKay breathed, smiling pearly teeth through dark and light green face paint.

“We get in the shit, it is the shits,” Sanchez said, letting go a whispered laugh. “Unless we’re part of a major sweep, which puts a company or battalion at our backs, we end up meat on a stick. Nobody out here to back us up, so we have to depend on remaining unseen to stay alive. We carry weapons, but a good recon team should never have to use them.”

“Snake Charmer, Rattler,” a call sounded on the radio.

“Uh-oh,” Jimmy Sanchez said, and leaned his head next to his communicator’s and listened. “They’re between reporting points.”

“Go ahead, Rattler, Snake Charmer actual,” Jimmy Sanchez spoke, taking the handset from the radioman.

“Bandits crossing our front, grid coordinate three-two-five-six-seven-niner, moving eastward, and drifting slightly south toward your position,” Corporal Bennett said. “November, victor, alpha, confirmed. Company size unit with some hand-drawn rolling stock and heavy weapons. Count six one-hundred-twenty-millimeter mortar tubes. Sir, be on guard at your location. Confirm sighting two rifle-squad size patrols scouting ahead of the main body, moving along their flanks.”

“Roger, Rattler, confirm November-victor-alpha company moving east southeast, present grid three-two-five-six-seven-niner, heavy weapons, six one-twenty-mike-mike mortar tubes, advancing with at least two satellite patrols scouting their flanks,” Sanchez repeated back to Corporal Bennett.

“Snake Charmer actual, Rattler. Roger the information,” Bennett responded.

“Snake Team, Snake Charmer actual,” Sanchez called, sending a blanket signal to all five recon sections. “Copy the last?”

“Cobra, copy,” Staff Sergeant Rhodes answered.

“Viper, copy. Mamba, copy. Bushmaster, copy,” the other teams responded.

“Snake Team, Snake Charmer actual,” Sanchez then radioed to all five of the four-man teams. “Withdraw, rally point Tango.”

“Roger, withdrawing to rally point Tango, Bushmaster out,” came the first response. Systematically, each of the other four teams answered, acknowledging the platoon commander’s order to move as quickly as possible to the rally point, where they would consolidate their force and move away from the area where Rattler had spotted the NVA company.

“Red Rider, Red Rider, Snake Charmer actual, over,” the lieutenant spoke sharply in a different handset’s mouthpiece, calling the operations monitor at the Ninth Marine Regiment’s combat command and operations center at Con Thien on the long-range radio that his reconnaissance platoon’s communicator had strapped to his back.

After a moment of silence, Sanchez repeated the signal again and again until finally a static-riddled response crackled through the earpiece. In the same quick, shorthanded language that he had used with his teams, the lieutenant relayed the sighting to the regiment’s operations officer, who then repeated the data to the platoon leader for confirmation.

“Roger, your copy is correct,” Sanchez said, and then listened again while the regimental S-3 spoke to him.

“We heading back to Con Thien?” McKay whispered as he, Sanchez, the radio operator, and the corpsman now began to work their way south from the crest of the hill, where they had lain hidden, moving toward the platoon’s primary rally point.

“Eventually,” Sanchez replied, whispering over his shoulder at McKay. “Operations wants us to drift a tad west, and then get in position to the rear of these guys, along the flank of the track they took. We’d like to know if that NVA company represents an advance element leading a main force, or if that bunch is alone, just in transit to link up with a force already down here. Did you happen to get a look at the aerial photos they had at the CCOC this morning?”

“No, I didn’t,” McKay whispered, trying to walk softly as they descended the slope of the hill.

“The pictures show all along the DMZ the NVA has begun massing a hell of a lot of forces. They’re getting ready for something big. Real big. We’ve now identified elements from the 320th NVA Division, the 325C Division, and the 308th and the 341st divisions. They’re on the move from Laos, all across our front. Could be headed down to Camp Carroll or over to Khe Sanh, take your pick. Two good targets. Intelligence suspects that we have additional units crossing the DMZ to bolster the 304th NVA Division, who we have confirmed already in this area. Probably where that company is headed. Hopefully, for us, they’re just in transit, headed to the 304th, and not a recon in force looking to engage lost souls in the darkness.”

“Company size unit seems awfully big for a recon in force,” McKay said, squatting behind Jimmy Sanchez, who now took a reading off his compass and looked at his watch.

“Big, but not unusual for the NVA. However, given they’re pulling carts and have several heavy weapons, I think they’re in transit,” Sanchez said, pulling out his canteen from the pouch next to his fanny pack and taking a drink. “Let’s hang loose here a minute, let the Viper team catch up with us. Four more guns might come in handy. I’m a little worried about these bandits patrolling along the flanks. Hate to run into them.”

 
“READ THE SIDE of this ammunition can, just so I know we didn’t get ours mixed up with theirs,” Jon Kirkwood told Terry O’Connor as he climbed behind his partner into the two-man foxhole less than a hundred yards from the operations bunker where they had left Major Jack Hembee and a platoon of command center Marines scurrying from radio to field telephone, reacting to incoming information from the units now engaging the enemy. “In this light, I can’t quite make out what it says.”

“Lake City Arsenal, lot 106, ammunition, M14, .30-caliber ball,” O’Connor said as he read the label. Then he popped open the lid and looked inside the can. “See, got these canvas bandoleers with cardboard sleeves full of M14 ammo. Just like at the rifle range. Here, take a bunch of rounds and pile them right in front of you so you can reload your magazine fast.”

“Leave them in the box; they’ll get dirty and jam the rifles,” Kirkwood said, picking up a handful of rifle shells that O’Connor had dropped on an earthen ledge in front of them.

“They won’t jam the rifles,” O’Connor said, slapping the back of Kirkwood’s hand, causing him to drop the rounds onto the fighting hole’s dirt floor and sump.

“Now you’ve really fucked them up, Terry,” Jon Kirkwood moaned as he knelt into the bottom of the fighting hole and felt for the loose ammunition.

“Forget it, man, we have like five hundred rounds in this box,” O’Connor said.

“I don’t want to be stepping on them,” Kirkwood growled, now on his hands and knees in the bowels of the hole, feeling for shell cases among the debris left by previous inhabitants of the outpost.

“You’re like an old-maid schoolteacher, Jon,” O’Connor said with a laugh, shaking his head and putting the binoculars to his eyes that Major Danger had given him as a last-minute thought so they could search for movement beyond the cleared area outside the wire. “Shit, you can really see good through these things. Amazing at night in just this artificial light. Here, take a look out there.”