Casca 14: The Phoenix (2 page)

H
o never gave the strange-eyed man another thought. After the incident he'd even felt a bit silly for letting his thoughts carry him away. What could he possibly have had to fear from one who had been so completely in his power and now was dead? As dead as the rest of the patrol. He had been fighting long enough to know that dead men can't hurt anyone. Two more days and they would reach their destination across the Cambodian border near where Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia touched corners. There, in a secure area, his agents and assassins, his "Ke'sat Nhan," were being trained and made ready for their day of use. Ho had long been fascinated by the story of the original assassins of Hassan ibn Hassad and the effect that they'd had on the course of history. The ancient assassins of Persia were a prime example of the power of selective terrorism, demonstrating quite clearly how a few men who were willing to die, could strike blind fear and panic into the minds and hearts of the so-called upper classes, rendering them powerless despite their armies and castles. His reverie was broken by Captain Troung. Ha was pointing out their approach to the village of Plei Tangale. It was a small hamlet of no great importance, peopled by members of the Bihnar tribe of Montagnards, those aboriginal savages of the Annamite highlands who held such a strong physical resemblance to the American Indians of the last century: wiry, stringy-muscled, a bit taller and darker than the Vietnamese, with long hair that hung to the shoulders and smelled of smoke.

Of late the Vietnamese on both sides had changed their policies concerning the natives and had been actively courting their favor. Ho felt that his party had the best offer to make them. If they supported the revolution then they would be granted an autonomous republic inside the sphere of the new government and allowed to continue their own way of life without any interference from the Vietnamese. This had already been done in North Vietnam and several influential Montagnard leaders had made the trip north and had returned with high praise for the situation in the Peoples Republic. Ho knew that once victory was achieved the so-called autonomous regions would quickly be reduced to their proper state and the savages once more put in their place. But for now there were several hundred thousand of them that could be of use and put into the field, thus saving the lives of
his own men. To that end, when he saw Moh Chen, the village chief, a dark, dry-skinned man of middle age with wide shoulders and muscular arms, wearing a loincloth and a red and black striped native blanket of homespun cotton approach him, he was all smiles.

His men were already in the village, trading for food, and gathering a few chickens and some rice for the evening pots. Ho made absolutely certain that everything his men took was paid for and without cheating. He needed the support of the villages in the region. Once he had them on his side they would serve as the eyes and ears that would warn him of danger long before it came too near to him. Everything was all smiles and welcome between the two men as greetings were exchanged in a mixture of Vietnamese and Bihnar. Both knew the other was not completely sincere, but the game had to be played. Ho dined somewhat unwillingly with the chief on a meal of fat roasted dog and rice served with the ever present "nouc mam," a fish sauce that was highly prized among the aborigines. Montagnard cuisine left much to be desired. The dog was simply gutted and tossed on a bed of coals to cook off its hide. When a portion looked done enough it was just torn off and eaten.

After dining, Ho made a few small gifts to the chief in the form of cigarettes taken from the dead Americans he'd ambushed. Then he departed leaving three men behind in the village to keep an eye on the trail and to serve as an additional incentive for the Montagnard chief to toe the line.

Casey dined on no such exotic a meal. Much of his nourishment came from a hunger to get his hands on Ho.
He did eat but didn't taste the flesh of the large, slow, tree lizard that had crossed his path. Iguana was a delicacy in many parts of the world, but he had not time to think about such niceties.

The spoor was growing clearer; he was gaining on them. While the Vietcong rested in the Bihnar camp he traveled, each step bringing him that much closer to the object of his hatred, the man called Ho.

H
o had no desire to tarry in the camp of the savages. After the basic amenities had been observed, he'd felt free to continue on to the base camp in a valley branching off the Song Cai River. The presence of his three well-armed men would be more than sufficient to insure the continued loyalty of the tribe. There would be no trouble from those animals. The chief knew all too well that the less than effective security of the Saigon forces was too far away to do his people any good. To him it didn't make much difference who the masters were or what ideology they espoused. To Moh Chen they were all the same. Both sides were hated equally, for both sides were Vietnamese and had been the hereditary enemies of his race since time immemorial. He would do what he had to for the safety of his tribe. That was his only concern and if it required paying lip service to the North Vietnamese or Vietcong then so be it. He would treat the Saigon Forces no differently if they came to his village. Spears, crossbows and a few rusty Mats bolt action rifles left over from the French were no match for AK-47s or M-16s.

Troung took the position behind their point man, his mind on his leader. He had a great admiration and respect for Comrade Ho and knew that he was in a favored position. Ho's star was on the rise. If his plan for the disruption of the enemies' morale and their will to resist was successful, there was no limit to how far he could climb in the ranks of those who would rule this land when the Americans and their puppets, the South Vietnamese, were defeated. That Ho would succeed was never a matter for doubt, but he was a bit concerned about Ho's occasional irrational behavior where prisoners were concerned. Not that he found any of Ho's actions reprehensible; it was only the degree of his passion that concerned Troung. Passion was not a good thing where business was concerned; it clouded the mind and judgment. Ho was fortunate that he, Troung, was at his side to provide a cooler head when the occasional moments of passion overcame his leader. He would be glad when they were back in their camp, even though it meant a night march from the village of Plei Tangale to the far banks of the Song Chi River.

Casey watched the haze of blue smoke from the cooking fires rise over the Bihnar village. Dawn was still a couple of hours away and soon they would start to awaken. He wanted to be done and away before then. A thin-ribbed dog scratched itself with its right hind leg, thought about it for a moment then rose, stretched its back, and went to leave its scent on a nearby post used for the butchering of an occasional deer or pig. He sniffed the post before relieving the pressure in his bladder. The smell of old blood brought saliva to its jaws as it wondered when it would taste red meat again.

Sliding along a drainage ditch, Casey moved, body low to the ground, taking advantage of all cover, staying in the shelter of the mist rising from the floor of the damp lands floating over him like the
spirit of the dead in the predawn hours. The coolness of the mist contrasted with the heat of his own body's furnace that was generating the feelings of hate that stayed with him. In the village he hoped to find that which he sought and needed. He knew he was close, and the fact that there were sentries on duty was a good sign. Still, he hadn't been able to determine in which huts the Vietnamese were sleeping. It was too dark and too far to see. He would just have to go down and find Comrade Ho. Somewhere in one of the huts, if he was lucky, he'd find him and then kill him.

Pausing, he lowered his stomach to the damp earth. A sentry walked his post, half-awake and bored from the long night, his lids thick with the heaviness that always came in the long hours before the sun rose. Casey waited, patient. Give the man time! The sentry turned his back and began to walk to the far edge of the village where the cooking fire was still smouldering, giving off pungent wisps of smoke to ride with the mist. Casey followed after him. Half crawling he closed on his target. A pariah dog smelled him and started to give a warning growl, then changed its mind. This was not something it wanted part of and the animal could smell the coming death. Placing its tail between its legs the dog arched its back in a sign of submission and turned away to hide under the floor of one of the longhouses.

Rising to his feet, Casey kept to the dark shadows of the longhouses as he closed in on his prey. He needed the man's weapons. During the time he had been watching, the Viet sentry had made the same pattern twice. Soon he would come back from the east side of the village to face out to where a small grove of plantains were nearly ready for picking.

Doan Le Quan was not very concerned about the presence of enemies this close to the border and guard duty was always boring. His
AK-47 hung from its shoulder strap as he made what he thought was another endless round of the village perimeter. His thoughts were concentrated more on when his relief would come than on his guard duty, so he could at last lay down and close his eyes to ease the dry gritty feeling which made them so very very heavy. The dry crackle of a footstep behind him didn't alarm him. "You're early Tran." He completed his turn, expecting to see his relief. Instead, he saw the face of a man that should have been dead. His throat constricted as much from superstitious terror as from the scarred hand that grasped it, the fingers digging into the phrenic nerve as the thumb wrapped around the side of his esophagus. His death came so fast that he never heard the cracking of his neck. Casey let the body slide softly to the earth to lie under a shifting blanket of low mist. Quickly he stripped the body of its weapons and ammo. He checked the chamber of the AK-47 to make certain there was a round in the spout. The harness, with the extra magazines for the Kalashnikov Assault Rifle, was too tight to fit over the width of his shoulders. He loosened the straps so he could tie it around his waist instead. The dead Charlie's knife and canteen were also appropriated.

Casey felt a chill run over him: Turning quickly in a half crouch, the bore of the AK-47 at hip level, his eyes locked on those of the Bihnar chief squatting on the porch of his longhouse.

The two men looked at each other for a long second. Moh Chen knew that he was less than a heartbeat away from death if he made the wrong move. He looked at the limp body of Doan Le Quan, gave a barely perceptible shrug of indifference, pointed to the body and then to a longhouse two buildings away. He held up his hand, showing two fingers, then slowly backed into the doorway of his hut, out of sight.

Casey gave a sigh of relief. He didn't want to kill anyone except those involved with the ambush. Besides he had always had a liking for the small tough men of the mountains and had fought side by side with them several times. He knew what Moh meant by his shrug. He would not interfere and felt no compassion for the death of the Vietnamese
Bo Doi
. By his signs he'd told Casey where the other Viets were sleeping and how many. He felt a bit cheated that there were only two of them here. That meant he'd missed Ho and would have to go on with the hunt.

Rifle at the ready in case he met the relief guard, he scurried across to the hut Moh Chen had pointed to, keeping to an angle where he couldn't be seen from the doorway. The longhouse, like all of them, was built about four to five feet off the earth, a single notched log serving as stairs to a small deck or porch. The walls were of woven palm fronds or thatch, as was the roof. The doorway was about half the size of a man and a single worn piece of a once red blanket hung over it, keeping out the night air. Not using the log steps, he swung his body up to lie prone on the deck. Listening for any sounds of movement from inside the hut he let his breathing ease back to normal. Through the sides, made of thin woven fronds, he could hear breathing: easy, natural, deep.
The breath of those who slept with no guilt on the mind to disturb their slumber. Casey set the AK-47 down on the porch and pulled the bayonet from its sheath. The thin, slightly scratching sound of the blade being drawn seemed unnaturally loud. Staying on his belly, he slid in under the rag of a blanket.

The interior of the hut was two shades darker than the outside. The smell of unwashed bodies mingled with the ever present odor of smoke from campfires that never went out. Lying on thatch pallets two feet apart were the sleeping forms of the VC soldiers. They slept fully dressed, only thin native red and black striped blankets covering them. Scanning the room, he noted where their weapons were lying, too close to their hands. Packs were set against the side of the hut near a couple of homemade crossbows. This was going to be almost too easy. He began to move closer to the nearest man. The weight of his body caused the floor of the hut to creak lightly. One of the Viets rolled over in his sleep at the sound. Casey froze....

Nothing more. He moved again, inching his way closer to the side of the dreaming Charlie, his bayonet in his right hand. When he reached shoulder level with his target he rose to his knees and looked down at the smooth cheeked face. Not a bad looking young man. Probably no more than twenty. Mentally he sighed.
Well he'll never see twenty-one
. The young
Bo Doi
rested on his side, his head facing toward his comrade. Casey took a breath, held it for a moment, let it out slowly, and then in unison his hands struck. His left hand slapped around the man's mouth at the same moment the bayonet hit the base of his skull severing the nerves and sliding up under the medulla oblongata into the brain proper. A quick painless death that came between heart beats and was over. There were worse ways to die. Now for the last one.