Chapter Seven
BA tried to stay focused on scanning the perimeter for enemy activity. Dwelling on the flaming chopper that had slammed into the nearby jungle—sending pieces of its hot debris raining down on the team—was not something he wanted to do. He marshaled his thoughts, almost able to keep them away from the crushing fact that he had just been on that bird; mere minutes had been all that had saved him from a certain, horrifying death.
Panic swelled in his chest, but he managed to control it or, at the very least, he didn't let it control him.
Dead—those men who had been on the chopper were all dead. Along with BA's fear there was a raw, growing grief—which was more profound than usual, and he was puzzled by its intensity. Hadn't he steeled himself to such losses? He'd seen countless men die before; why did this upset him so?
Captain Thompson…The name repeated quietly in his head as he watched Murdock stand like a blasted fool out in the open. Seemingly deaf to Hannibal's urgent commands to find cover, the lanky pilot was making himself a damn easy target.
Narrowing his gaze on Murdock, BA wished he'd never known of Captain Thompson; if no one had told him of the kids, the wife and of his stupid dog, Spud, he wouldn't have felt the grief—or at least he wouldn't have felt it as badly as he did. Why'd Murdock have to tell him? It wasn't fair…
He scowled at the lone captain, feeling a small stab of satisfaction as Hannibal hastily dashed into the clearing, grabbed hold of the dazed man's arm and hauled him roughly back into the safety of the vegetation.
Though he knew it was wrong, BA cultivated his anger, letting the emotion grow and fester; it was far better than that vacuum of weighted sorrow that hung so heavily in his gut. Anger he could use in the bowels of battle but grief he could not. This was why there was no room for friends in war.
Colonel Smith drew near, dragging the stunned man behind him, and, as soon as he reached the rest of the squad, Hannibal turned, blue eyes blazing as they locked on the captain.
"Damn it, I told you to get down and stay down when we took fire," Hannibal hissed, keeping his voice low. "What the hell was that?"
Murdock opened his mouth, drawing in a raspy breath. His eyes, confused and pained, were unblinking as they frantically searched the colonel's face, but he stayed silent. Finally, the captain's gaze dropped to the damp jungle soil, his mouth snapping shut without ever having uttered a word of defense.
For as much as BA wanted to hate the man, he simply couldn't. From the corner of his eye, he watched the grief-stricken pilot try to compose himself, and he felt a sudden protectiveness for the man—the one who had earlier managed to ease his fear. This new sentiment toward Murdock was an uncomfortable feeling though as it too closely paralleled the way in which BA's friendship with Peck had started to grow.
Damn it; don't need no more 'Nam friends…especially not crazy-ass chopper pilots!
"Just don't do it again," Hannibal said finally; his tone was softer, though still laced with anger. "And stay close behind me, alright?"
The pilot gave a dumb nod, looking suddenly small, fragile.
Shifting uneasily, BA frowned. He wanted to step forward, tell Hannibal to lay off, but what purpose would that serve? The crazy man was getting the scolding he had coming; the colonel wouldn't do him any real harm.
It was then that the captain glanced over, his gaze meeting BA's. Brows furrowed, eyes still clouded with confusion and shock, there was one pure, unspoken message that the sergeant gained from the man. I'm sorry—even amongst the sorrow, it was clearly written in Murdock's expression. It was an apology for being wrong…terribly wrong about Thompson, and it shamed BA like nothing else ever had. Quickly, he turned away, not wanting to see those sad brown eyes begging for forgiveness any longer.
Hannibal's silent signal to move out saved BA from having to stand awkwardly avoiding contact with Murdock any longer.
Upon seeing the command, the men quickly set back into formation. In a single line, they marched away from the smoldering wreckage. Undoubtedly, drawn in by the pillar of smoke, Viet Cong would soon be swarming the area, but, even though speed was of the essence for the team, their pace was tediously slow.
Booby-traps littered the trails, hindering their travel. To avoid them, Ray led the line of men through the densest part of the jungle, and though the going was more strenuous, it proved to be slightly safer. Still, BA and Ray had to halt the group several times as they came upon trip-wires and other unpleasant 'surprises'—some of which they could disarm but others, better left alone, required further detours.
Muffled voices, conversing in Vietnamese, brought them to nervous pauses three times, but, every time, the chatter grew silent as the Viet Cong patrols moved on in the direction of the shattered Slick. However, the wreckage would only serve as a distraction for so long before the Cong would spread out, searching for survivors. Time was running out.
Still, their sluggish pace continued.
BA slowed, leaned down and uncovered yet another small set of punji stakes. Disgusted, he scowled down at the sharpened, fire-hardened bamboo that stood in the small hole. It wouldn't have killed a man—at least not right away. Marching through the jungle with an impaled foot would have been torture, but the truly sadistic twist was the coating layering the spike.
Damn; dying due to infection would be a hell of a way to go, but knowing that infection was brought on by a Viet Cong shit covered punji stake would have been too much for BA to handle. Hell, he figured he might just have to cut off his leg if he ever stepped in one of those god-forsaken traps.
After making sure there were no mud ball mines or any other type of explosive added to the trap, BA used his rifle to mash and maneuver the spikes before filling the hole in with dirt with the heel of his boot.
Again, the slow crawl forward began, but not for long. A larger patrol of Viet Cong emerged from the jungle, barely giving Hannibal's team time enough to quietly slip under cover. Still unseen, the SF men silently waited as, within feet of them, the enemy passed.
BA was sure they would hear his ragged breathing; he tried to mute the sound, but found it impossible. He tensed, ready for a firefight, but the Cong continued on.
For a while, they crouched, giving the enemy enough time to slip far enough away—with no exit strategy currently in place and still unaware of where the captured chopper was, engaging the Viet Cong now would have been foolhardy.
BA perked up at the gentle whisper he heard behind him. He turned to find Hannibal conversing softly with Dom. Why the man was out of formation, BA didn't know, but the strained look on the colonel's face told him that it wasn't good.
Dom rose first, swiftly turning and heading back toward the end of the line. Next, Hannibal stood but before heading after Dom, he glanced over at Ray and BA.
"Keep a lookout; Murdock will stay with you—I'm heading to the back…" Hannibal paused, worry etching his face. "…Peck stepped on some spikes." Quickly, the colonel headed back to assess the damage to his wounded man.
Shit. BA's first reaction was to start after Hannibal, but Ray's firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. He'd serve his team better by keeping watch; he knew that, but still…
He glanced back, a new chilling fear clutching him. Shit wasn't the only thing the Viet Cong smeared on the stakes—sometimes they used poison.
Through the leaves, he spotted Dom standing rear guard; the man's expression was indecipherable though as he continuously, dutifully scanned the surrounding area. BA caught glimpses of the camouflaged dome peaks of Hannibal's and Callaghan's helmets, but there was no sign of Peck.
Sensing that both Ray and Murdock were covering for him, keeping watch over their end of the line, BA finally tore his gaze away from where his wounded friend certainly lay. Focusing his concentration, he began to eye the jungle, watching diligently for any motion.
Each passing second chipped away at BA's resolve though, and he found himself, countless times, glancing back down the line again.
This is why there is no room for friends in war…
Suddenly, Hannibal appeared with a limping lieutenant beside him. Slightly pale and sweaty, Face still wore one of his patented handsome, toothy grins. Shit; the man might have looked a bit like a weakling, but he was one tough bastard. Hell, if BA had stepped on a stake, he would have been hollering like a madman; the Viet Cong would have had them all pinned down for sure then.
"Well, that sucked." Peck's voice was strained; his smiling expression was holding but was also layered with pain as he limped to a halt next to Murdock.
"You ok?" The captain asked quietly, seeming unsure of his own words.
Face laughed. "Hell, I've been better, but I'll be fine."
No one could know that for sure, not yet. BA glanced at Hannibal; the colonel's face said just as much. If the stakes were poisoned, they might not know right away. They'd just have to wait and see, but that also meant they were running out of time even faster than before.
There was no choice now. BA swallowed hard, his throat tight with dread. Captain Thompson had been flying without an escort, and the pilot probably hadn't gotten out a distress signal before going down. It would take time before anyone at the base worked out that the team was without transport and they desperately, for Face's sake, needed a quick extraction.
They'd have to find the Huey; they'd have to fly it out of the jungle.
Hands beginning to tremble again, BA fought against his fear.
"BA…"
He quickly glanced up, catching Hannibal staring at him. Embarrassment dashed out his fear and, scowling, he nodded curtly in response.
"Go take rear guard."
The command didn't surprise him. Callaghan would need to stick close to Face near the middle of the line and Dom was carrying the radio equipment. Silently, BA took his new position and they started out.
The steady trudge forward blurred time, so that when they did come upon the clearing containing the chopper, BA felt a surge of surprise.
They crouched at the tree line, studying the layout of the area. What had been described as a rabbit hole was now a fully cleared LZ. Freshly hacked branches and shrubs littered the ground. A lot of work had gone into preparing the area, but why? A skilled enough pilot could have maneuvered out, not easily, but it could have been done. Whoever they had to fly the bird must have been pretty green.
BA shifted, readying his rifle. He knew as soon as Hannibal formed a plan, they would spring into action. There were about fifteen Viet Cong soldiers milling about the chopper, but there were certainly more nearby. The team would probably have to take a run at the Huey, giving Murdock little time to prep the bird and takeoff before they were all riddled with bullets.
Again, the fear crept up on BA. Getting in that chopper was one of the last things he wanted to do. The image of the Slick erupting into a ball of flames kept playing through his mind. His thoughts were interrupted though as he caught the slight sway of movement in the jungle behind the team.
Before he could give any warning though, a single clap of rifle fire sounded, followed quickly by a burning warmth in his thigh. He was able to raise his gun, firing a few rounds before another wave of pain burrowed into his shoulder. Staggering backwards, he found Dom beside him, laying down cover fire.
He stepped back, taking a new position as the jungle they had just traveled seemed suddenly to fill with Viet Cong. The mass of enemy pushed forward, giving Hannibal's team nowhere to flee save for the open clearing.
Over the chaos, Hannibal yelled for them to head toward the chopper.
Murdock and Face were laying down a new line of cover fire as Dom, BA and Callaghan retreated back toward them, and Ray and Hannibal were busy holding off the Viet Cong soldiers in the clearing around the chopper.
Suddenly, Hannibal launched himself toward Murdock, pushing the man down. Then, the colonel grimaced, his body flinching with the impact of some unseen force before he crumpled to the ground.
Amid the storm of gun fire, BA fought to draw in a shaky breath as he stared at the motionless colonel. Beside the big sergeant, a new cry of pain sounded as Dom fell to his knees, but the man was quick to rise, continuing his frantic race toward his teammates.
BA, though already feeling the results of his blood loss, continued forward as well. No matter what, they would do as Hannibal said; they would all get to the chopper.