Cambodian Hellhole (8 page)

"We need time," Stone said again. "Keep him talking."

A glance to either side showed him Wiley and Loughlin drifting out to flanking fire positions, Loughlin leading the pack mule with its precious load of gear. The four Hmong tribesmen seemed distracted, almost bored by the proceedings, but a closer look revealed that each of them was primed for combat, each with his finger on the trigger of his weapon, muscles tensed and ready for the sudden move they all knew was coming any second now. As soon as Lon Ky ran out of things to say.

And if the patrol leader could not be bought off, there would be killing.

Even if he could be bribed, Stone was worried that he might have second thoughts a mile or two along the trail. He might double back and pursue them . . . or radio a message on ahead.

And they could not afford a double-cross. Not now, with so much at stake, and so far yet to go.

He was turning back to face the ridge when an unexpected movement caught his eye, away to his left flank. Loughlin was there, with the mule, and now, glancing back in that direction, Stone picked out two more figures closing on the Britisher, their rifles held at the ready.

They were uniformed Cambodian regulars.

Stone cursed beneath his breath. They had been flanked already, cut off in the rear. He did not need to signal Loughlin; the former S.A.S. man had already seen his danger and was responding coolly, professionally, lifting one hand in an almost casual greeting to the hostile troops.

One of the regulars hung back, covering his partner as the second one advanced to stand beside Loughlin and the pack animal, giving the equipment load a swift visual once-over. He was reaching out to touch one of the packs on the mule, tugging at the ties that held it firmly in place, about to loosen the knot, from all appearances.

Another second, and he would be standing ankle-deep in C-4 plastic explosives, and whatever cover Lon Ky was constructing for them with the leader of the search patrol would be shot to hell.

No time to hesitate now. Time to move, to—

Stone was reaching for his rifle's safety lever when he saw the British commando reach across in front of the Cambodian soldier, almost as if he meant to slap his hand, admonishing him for rudeness. But there was a gleaming Ka-Bar knife in Loughlin's fist, and now the wicked blade was biting deep into the trooper's chest, punching through his camouflage fatigues and letting loose a crimson torrent from within.

The shit was in the fan, and there would be no turning back now, short of victory or death. Stone swiveled, leaving Loughlin to deal with the other flanker, knowing he could handle him without assistance. In the meantime, Stone's own weapon was rising, tracking onto target, his finger tightening into the squeeze as he riveted the team leader with his narrowed eyes.

They were all out of time and chances now. It was kill or be killed, the only game in town. And it was one that Stone was well equipped to play for keeps.

T
errance Loughlin ripped his knife out of the dying soldier's chest and let him fall, so much dead weight, no longer able to support himself on legs that had turned to rubber.

Pivoting, he brought the Ka-Bar knife up and over in a sweeping overhand toss, aiming more by instinct than anything else, already gauging the distance to his second target before he let it fly.

The knife described a glittering arc, tiny droplets of blood spraying from the eight-inch blade . . . and then the blade was disappearing once again, sunk deep into the second soldier's throat.

The trooper staggered backward, clawing at the knife that had transfixed his Adam's apple, cutting off his oxygen supply, his life itself, but there was nothing he could do to save himself. He tumbled to his knees and pitched over on his face with force enough to drive the knife completely through his throat and out the back of his neck.

Loughlin was already moving, dragging the pack mule along behind him, when his adversary hit the ground. Behind him, CAR-15s were opening up along the firing line, and heavier AK-47s answered from the ridge as the Cambodian patrol answered fire with fire.

Incoming rounds were whistling through the village, smacking into walls of thatch and board as the British soldier found an open doorway and led the mule inside and under cover.

It was a small house, but more than adequate for their short-range purposes. He glanced around, using a brief moment to register the former occupants—now skeletons—still lying where they had fallen when death descended on them from the sky. He wondered idly what had killed them—nerve gas, some defoliant, an even more unusual biochemical device—but he was out of time for speculation, and survival was the top priority. His life depended on attention to the here and now.

He left the mule, assured that it would not go wandering back outside with bullets singing past the open doorway. Moving in a combat crouch, he found a window, open, without glass, and thrust the muzzle of his rifle through it, ready now to join the fight.

Perhaps sixty yards away, the naked ridge was visible to Loughlin, tree trunks marching like a line of giant wooden soldiers in some strange formation. He could make out men in uniforms now, dodging in and out among the bullet-scarred trunks, trying to avoid the fire that Stone and Wiley, with the Hmong gunners, were lying down around them.

And they were answering, with a light machine gun and their AKs, pouring fire into the village with alarming accuracy. Loughlin knew that their position was a shaky one at best. If they could not wipe out this little force, they might well be pinned down until reinforcements came . . . and there would be no withstanding any sort of major assault, not in these flimsy structures that had housed only the dead for months.

He spotted a Cambodian wriggling up a tree trunk, going topside, seeking a sniper's nest somewhere overhead. Loughlin sighted on him quickly, set the CAR-15 for semiautomatic fire, and stroked the trigger lightly.

Twice.

The bullets plucked his target from the tree and spun it earthward, shrieking as it fell. The soldier hit the ground like a large potato sack, and did not move again.

Two others must have marked his muzzle blast. They swung their Soviet-made automatic rifles around to bring him under fire, peppering the hut and his window with a nonstop stream of lead. Loughlin backpedaled, deserting the window, seeking cover deeper in the room.

The regulars were lethal, no question about it. Their responses were swift, professional, and deadly. If they had been armed with heavy weapons . . .

Loughlin heard the telltale whooshing sound of the Soviet RPG-7 rocket launcher, and recognized it instantly. He did not need to see the rocket coming; it was quiet enough to hear the grim express-train rattle bearing down upon him, inexorably.

The south wall of the hut exploded inward with the impact, showering him with thatch and splintered wood. The shockwave picked him up and threw him back to earth again, knocking the wind out of him in the process.

Outside, the sounds of battle faded, weakened, and were lost.

S
tone watched the hut explode and grimaced, knowing Loughlin was inside there, possibly disabled. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

But there was something, yes, that he could do about the hostile rocket team.

The nearest Hmong commando was carrying two LAW rocket launchers in addition to his other complement of gear. The Fiberglas tubes were expendable, disposable bazookas, each good for one shot only . . . but with any luck and skill at all, one shot was all that Stone would need.

He signaled to the Hmong, and watched as the little guerrilla fighter broke from cover, racing back toward Stone's concealed position. He was ten strides out, no more, when some invisible puppeteer jerked his strings and dumped him facedown on the hard-packed soil. A small, neat bullet hole in his forehead was pumping crimson blood into the earth.

Stone cursed, knowing he could not abandon the LAWs; he would have to expose himself to get them, and run the risk of being picked off by the same fire that had downed the tribesman.

There was no time left to think about it. He was out of cover, moving, weaving in and out among the lead raindrops that were falling all about him, crouching at the dead man's side and fumbling with the straps that held his gear in place.

Stone got one of the rockets free, and he was going for the second when a burst of light machine-gun fire drove him backward, sprawling. A stream of bullets smashed the Second LAW, disabling it on impact, and he scuttled backward, cursing, seeking cover, with the remaining rocket launcher tucked beneath an arm.

He gained the cover of a shed and crouched down on his haunches as he made the launcher ready for firing. He pulled the retainer pin and swiftly telescoped the tube out to its full length, raising the sights and priming it to fire its single rocket.

There was no reloading the LAW rocket launcher. You made good with your first shot, or you got another launcher and tried again.

If you had another launcher handy.

If you got a second chance.

If, yes, you were still alive after the first round missed its target.

Stone did not intend to miss. He braced the launcher on his shoulder, sights adjusted to his eye, before he even tried to make a target acquisition. He would have no more than a few seconds to do everything before the hostile gunners zeroed in on him . . . and once they had him sighted, he was dead.

Stone took a breath, released part of it, and held the rest. Moving fully erect now, he rounded the corner, deliberately exposing himself to fire as he brought the rocket launcher into play.

A single glance was all he needed to pick out the RPG crew, wrestling to reload their bulky weapon. They were almost finished, and the riflemen covering them were alert to any sign of danger, one of them already pointing off in Stone's direction, swinging his AK-47 around to bring him under fire.

Another second, no more, and they would have him.

Stone sighted quickly, calculating azimuth and range, smoothly depressing the firing lever of the LAW. It shuddered on his shoulder, sending out a fiery backblast that would have denuded any living vegetation for twenty feet . . . and he could actually see the rocket as it streaked along its course, homing on the little clutch of human targets.

The whistling rocket struck a tree trunk three feet to the left of Stone's primary target, detonating into smoke and oily flame, the thunderclap rolling back to envelop him despite the range. The explosion flattened the RPG team and their surrounding gunners, and deafened those close by, but under cover.

Stone dropped the useless tube of Fiberglas, and he had his rifle in hand, ready to respond to any answering fire, when he suddenly realized that it was over.

Straggling survivors—three of them—were standing up along the ridge, hands raised high overhead, now advancing out of their positions, coming down the slope. Stone watched them come, risking a sideways glance toward either flank, reassuring himself that Loughlin had survived the RPG blast and was on his feet.

Almost incredibly, they had not suffered any casualties beyond the one Hmong guerrilla. They were short one rifle now, but taken altogether, it could have been much worse.

The Cambodian regulars had reached the foot of the slope, and they were entering the wasted village proper when Stone saw Lon Ky advancing on them, his AK-47 leveled from the hip. It took an instant for Stone to realize precisely what the Khmer Rouge fighter had in mind, and by the time he started moving out to intercept their guide, it was too late.

Lon Ky let loose a single, rattling burst that raked the three surrendering regulars from left to right and back again, almost cutting them in two at waist level, blowing them back and out of frame, out of life. They lay twitching on the blood-soaked ground for perhaps an instant, then were still.

"Goddammit!" Stone saw Wiley closing on the guide, his CAR-15 primed and ready to explode in his big, hairy fists. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Killing vermin," Lon Ky told the Texan impassively. He turned to Stone, no expression whatsoever on his face. "We have no food, no time for prisoners. The captain knows this."

"Well, Jesus Christ—"

"He's right," Stone said, trying to keep the disgust he felt from showing in his voice. "Anyway, it's done now."

"Listen, Cap—"

"It's done," he said again, and pinned Wiley with his eyes. "No way to bring them back."

Hog Wiley hesitated, glaring daggers at their guide, and finally nodded and turned away, muttering under his breath.

Stone recognized the truth of what Lon Ky had said, the possible necessity of his action . . . but that did not help murder to set any better with him. Whether the Khmer Rouge guerrilla fighter had been right or not, whether the little massacre had served a purpose or been all in vain, there was no time to agonize about it now.

But he would watch Lon Ky even more closely now.

There was something about the Cambodian, something that set Stone's teeth on edge and raised the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

Something.

"Let's get out of here," he ordered, already suiting action to words. "We've got another seven miles to cover before dark."