Cambodian Hellhole (9 page)

"T
here's nothing," Wiley whispered bitterly before he passed the glasses over. "Not a goddamned thing."

Hog was not speaking literally, of course. The camp was there, as predicted, laid out before them like a child's fort, lacking only toy soldiers on the walls. Lacking, in fact, any sign of life at all.

Stone took the binoculars from Hog and raised them to his eyes, careful not to give himself away by any sudden disturbance of the undergrowth that sheltered him from prying eyes. He scanned the camp, alert for any signal that the prisoners and troops were down there waiting for him.

And he came up empty.

Cursing underneath his breath, Stone made a second careful scan of the alleged prison compound, taking his time and committing every relevant detail to memory as he went.

The compound was located on an island in the middle of a sluggish river, an ideal defensive position—but one that could also work against the defenders in some ways. While frontal assault would be out of the question, neither could the troops inside—if there were any troops—take full advantage of the combat stretch provided by the surrounding countryside.

Stone had mobility; the camp's defenders were hemmed in by walls.

But where were they?

The compound was surrounded by an eight-foot bamboo fence, its poles topped with wicked concertina wire. A soldier could get hung up there while snipers picked him off, and they would have to find some other way inside if they decided to go in. No point in ending up like flies on flypaper, waiting to be swatted.

The only gate in the surrounding fence was facing to Stone's left, and it opened directly onto a wooden bridge that spanned one channel of the river, keeping the camp in touch with the opposite shore. From the land end of the bridge, a narrow footpath had been worn into the grass and underbrush, winding away into the jungle, disappearing in the general direction of some rocky hills just visible beyond the treetops.

Lon Ky noticed the direction of Stone's gaze and spoke to him in a muffled whisper.

"Mines there," he said by way of explanation.

Stone knew they would be mining iron or phosphates—possibly even gold. Prisoners of war would make an ideal forced-labor force for the mines, certainly. But there was still no evidence of anyone in residence at the camp below.

Well, almost no evidence.

Inside the compound, one of perhaps a dozen huts of varied sizes was flying a Cambodian flag. The flag was not new, but neither was it unduly tattered or faded. It might easily serve for the standard of a jungle outpost, still in service.

Or, he told himself, it might as easily have been abandoned, left behind by careless color guardsmen when they stripped the camp before departing for another bivouac.

Obviously there was but one way to resolve the problem. They could not afford to sit here, watching while the afternoon of their third day on the trail turned into evening. Someone would have to get inside the camp and check it out firsthand, at close range.

Someone like Mark Stone.

"I'm going in," he told Wiley and Loughlin as he shrugged out of his Alice pack, setting his assault rifle aside.

"Count me in," Hog said, likewise wrestling out of his traveling gear.

"It's strictly one-man-in," Stone told him, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Fine," the driver answered. "So I'll give you some close-range support, okay?"

Stone could find no logical reason for objecting. He had worked with Wiley long enough to know that the big man was entirely capable of moving stealthily and silently through the jungle. He would not give himself away—and he could be invaluable if they were, in fact, walking into some sort of sophisticated ambush.

"Right." He turned to Loughlin, speaking fast before the Britisher could invite himself along as well. "Stay here and keep an eye on things. If we run into trouble, I want you in a position to get us out. Fast."

Loughlin nodded, clearly hating to be left behind, but he had already spoken to Stone about the need to have someone watching Lon Ky, making sure that he did nothing—inadvertently or otherwise—to blow their mission. They had come too far to let a traitor in the ranks, real or suspected, double-cross them now.

"I'll hold the fort," he told Stone grudgingly.

"And don't fall asleep on us," Wiley jibed, grinning through his whiskers.

"See you take your own advice," Loughlin told him gruffly, but he was also smiling.

Stone moved out through the undergrowth, easing his way along without hacking at the vines and fronds that sought to hold him back. He had become a part of the landscape, another jungle predator coming down for water, and he would do nothing to arouse the suspicions of any invisible watchmen across the river.

Behind him, Hog Wiley was moving with a silent grace amazing for a man of his size. Stone barely heard him trailing, confident that no one as far away as the compound would know that either one of them was closing on the water's edge.

The jungle shadows were already lengthening toward dusk, and here along the riverbank it was half-light, the undergrowth sheltering them completely from prying eyes. Stone spent another moment studying the opposite bank, finally picking out the landmark that he needed, motioning to Hog and pointing out what he had found.

"Right there. My ticket in."

It was a piece of corrugated drainpipe, wide enough to let him pass with room to spare. The greater part of it was buried underground, but Stone knew it must surface somewhere on the inside of the compound. He would worry out the details when he got inside and reached the other terminus—before he showed himself to any prowling sentries that their first recon had overlooked.

He carried an Uzi pistol, and the Ka-Bar knife would be his only other weapon. He could not afford to take the rifle with him, slowing him down and banging along inside the drainpipe; what he sacrificed in firepower for the soft probe, he was hoping to make up in speed and silence.

And he had no intention whatsoever of starting a firefight inside the compound. Not yet.

If he found signs of life, he would fade back and report, and they could lay their plans in safety, on the other side of the water.

If the camp was as deserted as it seemed, he would watch out for clues as to where and when the prisoners had gone, although he knew that realistically there would be—could be—no second chance, this time out.

They were extended to their limit as it was; they had no rations for extended ramblings through the jungles, and such actions would be tantamount to suicide in any case. A savvy warrior did not thrash around on unfamiliar turf, engaging the enemy blindly, without strategy or preparation.

At least he did not do it more than once.

Stone reached the water under cover of the overhanging vegetation, slipped into it, and was gone. He moved along, neck-deep, keeping his head above water and watching the opposite shore for any sign of movement that might betray a lookout or a waiting sniper.

There was nothing, and he reached the shore and the drainpipe without incident. Pausing there, he turned back and gave Hog a simple thumbs-up prior to levering himself up and into the foul darkness of the pipe.

It did not take a genius to figure out that they had been dumping garbage here, with an occasional load of sewage in the bargain. It was ripe and reeking, with mold and mildew thriving in the muck that soaked into his clothing and smeared his hands and face before he had progressed a dozen feet. Worms and water beetles squirmed beneath him, wriggling through the fingers of his free hand as he pulled himself along, a giant mole inside its makeshift tunnel, seeking daylight at the opposite end.

And in his right hand Stone held the combat dagger ready. He would not risk a shot inside the tunnel, but grim experience had taught him that such avenues of entry might be guarded—even occupied—by troopers of the opposition. He did not intend to let them catch him unawares and kill him underground.

Mark Stone was wise, alert, aware—and still, he almost missed the snake.

It lay in wait for him, directly at the tunnel's midpoint, dozing in the heat of late afternoon. He saw it only briefly, then the body reared up, open mouth hissing at him, the cobra's neck flattening and flaring out in its distinctive hood. No time to hesitate, no time to think. Instinct took over instantly, and Stone lashed out with the razor-edged knife, decapitating the serpent before it had a chance to strike. The headless body stood in front of him defiantly, for a long, tense moment, then collapsed back into the muck from which it had risen.

Stone took the body first, using what little elbowroom he had to toss it back behind him. Next he speared the venomous, still-deadly skull with the tip of his knife and tossed it, too, back over his shoulder, never letting the tiny fangs come anywhere close to his skin.

Only when the tunnel's guardian had been disposed of did Stone let himself expel a sigh of heartfelt relief. If he'd been another second slower in reacting, he would be dying now, the venom coursing through his veins to paralyze his heart, his lungs, his central nervous system.

Ahead of him, the tunnel took a ninety-degree turn upward, climbing vertically for perhaps ten feet. The shaft was topped by a heavy metal grille, and Stone saw daylight streaming through the grating.

He began to climb, wedging himself into the shaft with feet and shoulders, careful not to slip and thus betray his presence with the sound as he came crashing back to earth. It took him several moments, and his spine was in agony by the time he reached the lip of the shaft, but at last he was able to lift the grating slightly with the fingers of his free hand, and peer out into the compound.

Nothing.

He checked each direction twice, then finally edged the grille aside and levered himself up and out, collapsing on the grass and making himself instantly immobile.

He was inside, and the heat hadn't even begun.

If the camp was occupied, he might already have been seen, in spite of his precautions. They might have guns trained on him already, prepared to riddle him the second he moved.

He rose into a crouch, breaking for the nearest building, which appeared to be a barracks. When he rounded the corner, he saw that it was solid on only three sides; the front was barred with long poles of bamboo, forming a rank of narrow prison cages facing toward the center of the compound.

Empty.

Every cage deserted.

Stone moved on, cursing under his breath now, using a bit less caution in spite of himself, as he began to sense that he had blown it once again.

The prisoners were gone. He had arrived too late. He had fucked up.

Another rank of cages, and he came at this one from the west end, moving cautiously along the empty ranks of bamboo bars, the knife still in his hand. Three cages, four, five. All empty.

He almost cried aloud when the prisoner in cage number six stood up to face him, gaunt hands reaching for him through the bars.

Stone caught himself in time, swallowing the heart that had somehow maneuvered its way into his throat. He closed in, speaking softly to the trooper, praying that the man could still communicate intelligibly after all these years.

A soft voice answered him in Cambodian.

From behind.

Stone knew exactly what had happened, and the sudden rush of guilt was tempered with embarrassment at his own carelessness. The sentry had come up behind him, moving softly, unnoticed as Stone had rushed from one rank of cages to the next, convinced he was alone inside the compound.

He had fucked up, yes . . . but there was still a chance that he could salvage something from the hideous snafu.

He spun around, already drawing back the knife to let it fly, calculating the sentry's position by the sound of his voice.

There were two of them, the second standing silent, several paces to the first one's side. They both held AK-475 leveled at his chest, and neither of them showed the slightest hesitancy about killing him.

Stone froze, released the Ka-Bar from numb fingers, let it fall. He made no move to stop the second trooper as he stepped forward and ripped the Uzi off him without another word.

The closer of the two motioned with his rifle, pointing Stone in the direction of the CP hut, the one that still displayed a flag.

As any outpost should, of course, which was still occupied by troops.

Stone cursed himself silently, bitterly.

He was inside the camp, all right, and it was definitely occupied. There was only one thing wrong.

The hunter had suddenly become a prisoner.

D
usk, and the little penetration team was huddled in the deepening jungle shadows, well back from the riverbank. They shared cold rations, eaten straight from the can; despite their distance from the river and from the prison compound, they could not afford to risk a cookfire.

Crouching in a tight semicircle were Wiley, Loughlin, Lon Ky, and two of the Hmong trackers. The third surviving Hmong was standing watch, taking his turn on the riverbank, watching the encampment and the bridge that was its only exit.