Chapter 25: Fortunate Son

"Roger that," came the voice on the radio. "How we looking on the coast? Over."

"All quiet so far," Dutch replied, pressing the speaker mic. "Not a soul from here to Basilan from what I can see. Over."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you were on the ground," the man replied. "Me and the boys should be coming back shortly. Make sure you have the boat ready to do a pickup. Over."

"Roger that," Dutch answered, setting the speaker mic into its bracket and laying back in his seat. It was hot today, hotter still inside the command centre of the river patrol boat he was captaining. He had removed his jacket and wore only a tank top on his torso, along with his standard combat trousers and boots, but the sweat was pouring off of him by the bucketful. It was quiet, like he said, but if anything that gave him cause for concern. He had been stationed to do several extractions during this conflict and each time there had been trouble. Nothing they couldn't handle, but it was never as serene as today seemed. For that reason, Dutch was on edge. It was like he was waiting for it all to go wrong. As soon as his unit made their pass back to the coast, Dutch would be ready to collect them at the mouth of the Mekong river and they could return to base. He just hoped it all went off without a hitch. For some reason he couldn't quite place, he couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation that set him on edge. But now was not the time for concern. There was little he could do, anyway. All he was there to do was wait for the others to finish up further inland and make their way back to the boat.

As he lay back in the seat with one hand behind his head, he snatched up his helmet with the other and plucked the small photograph from the strap, holding it up in the air and examining it. It was his unit, the men he had been here countless times with since the beginning of this bloody war. There were eight of them in total, including Dutch, and eight they had remained the entire time. They had been luckier than most. If the reports could be believed, some of the operations further north hadn't gone quite so smoothly and many American soldiers had been killed. Dutch shed no tears for them. He had no particular investment in what they were doing here. He was a grunt and he would do his job well enough, but the carnage of war did not interest him. He was just following orders.

Dutch placed the photo back in the strap of the helmet, letting the seat down and placing the helmet itself over his face as he tried to get some rest. It could be several hours yet before the others were done. When Dutch finally did awaken, it was noticeably darker outside and the radio was making a noise of static. He must have unintentionally knocked off the frequency. Rubbing the grit from his eyes, he let the chair back up and started to fiddle with the dial. As soon as he had fixed the issue, he snatched up the mic and pressed the side of it.

"Miller, you copy? What's happening out there? Over."

"Dutch!" the voice came suddenly. He sounded panicked, which made Dutch go on the alert immediately. "Where the hell have you been?! It's a fucking shitstorm out here, we need immediate extraction!"

"Goddammit. What's your location? I'll have to do an emergency pickup."

"Negative," Miller said frantically. "We're too far into the jungle and Carson is bleeding like a stuck pig, leaving a whole damn blood trail behind him. We got a hold of Whiskey when you weren't responding. They're sending in a chopper for us."

"Hold position for now, then," Dutch told him, deciding not to dwell on the fact that he hadn't done them any favours by both haphazardly knocking the radio out of frequency and taking a nap during their situation. The sound of the chopper followed only seconds later and Dutch looked out the window to spot it lowering near the treeline. As soon as it was low enough to the ground, it could scan the area for the rest of his unit and get them to safety. Dutch decided to stay where he was for now just so he could confirm that they were safe. He just hoped the Vietcong didn't follow the others while they fled and made for the chopper. Before he could even sit back down, something broke the treeline and crashed into the side of the chopper. It was knocked completely off course and began to twirl in the air, finally plummeting to the ground in a fiery explosion. Dutch could feel the force of it from here and the PT boat began to rock. He brought the mic to his mouth again.

"Miller! Chopper is a no-go, it's been downed by a goddamn RPG!"

"You're fucking kidding me! I don't know if we can make it to the coast, Dutch, but we might be able to get to the Mekong at a push. We might need you to come and get us." The Vietcong barrelled out from the trees in droves and started firing at the PT boat, with several of them positioned along the mouth of the river. Their bullets wouldn't do too much damage if Dutch began to move, but they were in the process of reloading the RPG.

"Negative!" he roared into the mic. "It's too hot here. Extraction won't be possible."

"Come on, Dutch, we need you!" Miller insisted. "We're in a real pickle right now and we need your help. If we can make it to the Mekong, you can pick us up and we'll figure it out from there. But there's no way we're gonna last otherwise. Are you hearing me, Dutch? Dutch?! DUTCH!"

The radio made a soft electronic noise as it was turned off and Dutch fell back into the seat. Miller's words were like nails on a chalkboard and he couldn't listen to them anymore. He sighed as he came to terms with what he was about to do, with what he had already done. He looked out the window again and was unafraid at the sight of the soldiers taking aim at the boat. If anything, it wouldn't have been so bad to go down with his boat. But it was not his time to die, and his survival instinct was too stubborn. And so he turned on the engine, took the boat out to open water, and sped off in the other direction, leaving his comrades-and his honour-to die.

(***)

The scotch tasted better than it had any other night, and it was badly needed to say the least. Dutch left the glass down on the table beside the papers he was going through and massaged his forehead. Normally, he wouldn't be the one going through the paperwork but Rock had been difficult to get a hold of lately and Dutch lost patience. Now, he had resigned himself to picking up the slack. He wasn't sure if it was that, the alcohol, or recent events that had his mind recollecting some less pleasant memories he tried to bury. He could remember as clear as day when he had taken Major Shane Caxton and the Grey Fox team to the Golden Triangle while Roberta had been hunting them, and the route he had taken forced him to traverse the Mekong river. As well as that, Garcia Lovelace enlisted his help to track Roberta down when she followed the Wolf into the countryside and that had been a second trip up the Mekong in as many years. Perhaps this had triggered something in his mind, causing these forgotten memories to flood into his head. It had been happening more and more lately, especially during the business with the 216. Jones managed to needle his way into Dutch's mind and open the door to his past. Ever since, the leader of Lagoon Company hadn't quite been able to relax.

"Well, damn," he mumbled to himself, glancing over his shoulder at the shelf of drinks. His eyes fell on the bottle of Ardbeg Provenance, the scotch he was drinking now. "Not even you can set my mind at ease." Deciding to keep his mind busy with work, he plucked up the papers in front of him and started going through them. The hour was late and he would need to get to it if he wanted to get some sleep before dawn. As soon as he was ready to get down to business, the phone rang and Dutch entertained the idea of tearing it off the wall and throwing it into the ocean. He had no idea who would be calling this late, anyway. It couldn't have been a client.

Lagoon's leader reluctantly dragged himself out of his seat and went to the wall, grabbing the phone and placing it to his ear.

"What?" he answered grumpily, declining to even mention who he was in the hope that anyone seeking Lagoon's services would assume they had the wrong number and hang up.

"You're up late, Dutch," Balalaika's voice came from the other end. Dutch couldn't help but smirk. He was just glad it wasn't some lowlife who wanted to use his boat to skip town.

"I could say the same thing about you."

"Guilty as charged," she said good-spiritedly. "Are you busy?" Dutch looked at the papers on the table, then at the clock on the wall. It had just turned midnight.

"Not really," he lied.

"Marvellous. Seeing as how neither of us will apparently be getting any sleep tonight, what's say I pay you a visit and keep you company? In truth, I have some things I'd like to discuss, anyway." So it would turn out to be a job offer after all. How ironic.

"Sure thing," he agreed, begrudgingly accepting the fact that there would be no work done tonight. "Just knock when you're here and I'll let you in."

"Will do. I'll see you then, Dutch." He set the phone back on the wall and returned to his seat, knocking back the rest of the scotch. He took a few seconds to consider if he might get something productive done before Balalaika's arrival, but he knew it was futile and instead decided to head over to the drinks. He grabbed the bottle of Ardbeg in his hand and poured himself another scotch.