Read Matterhorn Page 11

  It was as if someone had torn a sheet of solid sound. The M-16s, on full automatic, screamed, making Mellas wince and shut his eyes. Just a few meters in front of him he could hear the slower, more solid hammering of the heavier-caliber NVA AK-47s. Mellas, who had buried his face in the earth, now raised his eyes, trying to see through the jungle to where the sound originated. Quick bursts from the lighter, higher-velocity M-16s of Rider’s fire team were going off; the bursts alternated as one rifleman would cover for another who was slamming in a new magazine. The blurred screams of the M-16s on full automatic answered the slower and heavier slapping of the AK-47s. The AK bullets cracked overhead, cutting branches in two. Leaves, bark, and splinters rained down on the men’s helmets and backs. There was a short explosive pop followed almost immediately by the thud of a much louder explosion as Gambaccini got off a grenade round. Uphill from them, someone was shouting. There were crashing sounds in the jungle. The radio was screaming. “What the fuck’s going on? You being hit? Over.”

  Mellas could scarcely talk because of the blood pounding in his throat. The air was crazy with the ear-hammering noise of automatic weapons. “That’s a neg.” Mellas was unaware that he was shouting. “It’s the basketball team. Over.”

  “Where are they? Give me a pos rep. Over.” Fitch’s voice steadied Mellas, who had to cover one ear with his hand to hear what Fitch was saying. “About twenty-five meters bearing zero-four-five. Maybe less. I don’t know. I can’t see shit.” Mellas’s words were coming out in gasps.

  “Get your arty cranked up. You want the sixties dropped in closer? Over.”

  “That’s a neg.” Mellas gasped for air. “Don’t know where the team is.” Panting. “Character Delta’s going up on the arty net now. Over.”

  Mellas was bewildered by the suddenness of it all. It had been so methodical, so easy. Now he couldn’t even tell where the fire was coming from. Should he go after Rider or wait for him? Questions rattled through his head, but no answers came. He decided to stay put.

  An AK-47 bullet with just enough energy left to keep moving after it exited from a thick brush stem fluttered over Mellas’s head with a high-pitched whine and lost itself in the dense jungle behind him.

  Then there was silence. It was as if the last shattering burst had killed all sound. Everyone was breathing rapidly. Mole was digging his toes into the earth behind the machine gun, the stock pulled in tight to his shoulder, staring down the barrel as if trying to cut through the jungle with his eyes.

  There were no sounds from the forest.

  Mellas crawled up next to Connolly and whispered, “We’ve got to get in touch with Rider.”

  Connolly nodded. He cupped his hands and called out in a strangled half whisper, “Rider?” His voice carried through the silence like a shaft of light through a dark cave. No answer. An insect started to chirrup again. “Rider, get your ass back in here. Call my name when you get close so we’ll know it’s you.” Connolly turned to Mellas. “He ain’t hardly going to yell back, sir.”

  The radio hissed with static. Mellas knew what was coming. “This is Bravo Six. We need a sit rep. Big John is creaming his jeans. Over.”

  “Six, this is One Actual. No change yet. Over.”

  There was a long pause. Fitch knew as well as anyone that, at the moment, to go looking for Rider would be insane. He’d be shooting anything that moved. So would any number of NVA. The radio hissed again. “I copy. But you’ve got to get me a sit rep ASAP. Over.”

  “I copy. We’re working on it. Over.”

  “Roger that. Bravo Six out.”

  Three long minutes went by. Then they heard a sound in the bushes. Rifles moved in unison, focusing on the single sound. Connolly’s hand was up, holding the fire. A whisper cut through the bush. “Conman?”

  Rifles relaxed.

  “Here,” Conman whispered back.

  A brief commotion followed, then Rider came scrambling into the perimeter, crouched low, followed by his two team members and Gambaccini with the M-79 still smoking from the barrel. They threw themselves to the ground.

  Rider crawled over to Mellas. He was breathing hard. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. His utility shirt reeked. “Two gooks,” he said. “Maybe more. We saw each other at the same time.” His chest heaved, trying to pull in more air. “We both opened up. We hit the deck. Shot shit out of everything. I may have hit one. They dee-deed.”

  “Which way?”

  Rider shook his head negatively. “Fuck if I know. Downhill.”

  “That’d be south,” Mellas said, pulling out his map. He pulled the squad back while Daniels worked over the area south and east of them with artillery and mortar fire, controlling the 105-millimeters from his own radio and the 60-millimeters from Skosh’s radio. After about fifteen minutes the squad moved into the worked-over area, everyone on the alert, Pat quivering with excitement but under perfect control by Arran.

  Pat picked up a trail and started tracking. The squad followed Pat down into the valley. They worked through thicker and thicker growth, occasionally seeing a torn bush, a broken tree limb, or fresh dirt from the artillery. Other than these small signs and the smell of the explosive, the half-hour fire mission and fight had made no impression on the jungle at all. The Marines began to grow weary.

  The radio cracked. “Bravo One, this is Bravo Six. Big John wants an after-action report. He can’t wait any longer. He’s got to see Bushwhacker Six. I’ve also got Golf Six on my back wanting to know how his artillery did. Over.”

  “Wait one,” Mellas said. He sighed, holding the handset in front of his mouth, thinking. Mellas wanted to believe something had happened, something good that he could report. They’d shot up a quarter of an hour’s worth of shells. Rider had done an incredible job checking out the alert. No one had been hurt. It was a good job. Mellas wanted to believe they’d done well. He wanted to, so he did.

  “Bravo Six, this is Bravo One. Our character Romeo feels certain he got one right when he opened up. He only saw two gooks, but from the sound of things there had to be more than that. We got a probable for sure. Over.”

  There was a pause. “What about the artillery damage assessment? Over.”

  Mellas looked at Skosh. Skosh shook his head and spat, still leaning over. “I don’t know. I’m just the fucking radioman.”

  Conman spoke up. “Give them a fucking probable and get the arty off the skipper’s back. They’ll never leave us alone if we don’t, sir.”

  “I can’t give them a goddamn probable,” Mellas said. “What evidence have I got?”

  “They don’t need fucking evidence. They need an artillery damage assessment. Tell them there’s all sorts of blood trails around here. They always like that.”

  Mellas looked at Daniels. Daniels held up both hands, palms out, and shrugged. He didn’t give a shit.

  Mellas keyed the radio. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo One Actual. We got one probable. That’s all. Over.” He wasn’t going to lie so that an artillery officer could feel good.

  So the one probable became a fact. Fitch radioed it in to battalion. Major Blakely, the battalion operations officer, claimed it for the battalion as a confirmed, because Rider said he’d seen the guy he shot go down. The commander of the artillery battery, however, claimed it for his unit. The records had to show two dead NVA. So they did. But at regiment it looked odd—two kills with no probables. So a probable got added. It was a conservative estimate. It only made sense that if you killed two, with the way the NVA pulled out bodies, you had to have some probables. It made the same sense to the commander of the artillery battalion: four confirmed, two probables, which is what the staff would report to Colonel Mulvaney, the commanding officer of Twenty-Fourth Marines, at the regimental briefing. By the time it reached Saigon, however, the two probables had been made confirms, but it didn’t make sense to have six confirmed kills without probables. So four of those got added. Now it looked right. Ten dead NVA and no one hurt on our side. A pretty good day’s work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Colonel Mulvaney, the regimental commander, ponderously mad
e his way up the single aisle between the captains, majors, and lieutenant colonels who stood at attention waiting for him to reach his empty place at the front of the rows of folding chairs. The humid air in the tent smelled of mothballs. When he reached his chair, Mulvaney grunted to Major Adams, who crisply asked the men to take their seats.

  Mulvaney picked up the briefing sheets that had been placed on his chair and shuffled through them. His mind was on the recent discussion with the division chief of staff about the coming combined cordon and search operation at Cam Lo. It “must use ARVN troops and the local militia.” It would be “highly conspicuous and highly political” —and, in Mulvaney’s view, highly impractical. He’d been asked to give two battalions. After his vehement argument against it, including a colorful analysis of the effectiveness of ARVN, the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, he’d been ordered to give two battalions.

  Major Adams cleared his throat. Mulvaney sighed, eased his large body back into the chair, and nodded at Adams, who immediately turned to a large map and indicated with a pointer.

  “Contact occurred today at eleven-forty-seven hours, at grid coordinates 689558, between a squad-size unit from Bravo Company One Twenty-Four on a routine security patrol, and an estimated ten to fifteen Vietnamese. Two confirmed kills, one probable. No injuries reported from Bravo Company. Artillery fire was called in with two confirmed kills and one probable reported. The weather prohibited air strikes.” The major turned to face Mulvaney.

  Mulvaney knew he should ask a question. It annoyed him that Adams kept saying One Twenty-Four all the time, as if after twenty-six years in the Marine Corps he wouldn’t know that Bravo Company of his own regiment was in the first battalion. He nevertheless kept his temper, remembering his wife, Maizy, who even at the airport had cautioned him again to keep his temper, not only for the sake of the men under him but also for the sake of his career. A fucking combined operation with the South Gooks. Sitting around a goddamned village while their goon squads went in and roughed up the civilian political opposition. Again he remembered that people were expecting a question.

  “Any intelligence gathered?” he asked. “Weapons recovered?”

  Major Adams hadn’t covered that question. He quickly looked down at the second row of seats, where Lieutenant Colonel Simpson and Major Blakely, First Battalion’s commanding officer and operations officer, were leaning forward in their chairs behind Mulvaney. Blakely, immediately recognizing that Adams wasn’t prepared for Mulvaney’s question, quickly shook his head no, his lips pursed tightly. Adams, with hardly a pause, answered the colonel’s question. “That’s a negative, sir. Immediately after contact was made the friendly unit withdrew to bring in artillery fires.”

  Mulvaney grunted again. Even though it had been a quarter of a century ago, it seemed to him that only last weekend he himself had been leading patrols in the jungle. If he’d been leading the goddamned patrol and had run into a unit of unknown size, he could very well imagine getting his ass out of the area and not bothering to collect papers.

  Two kills for Bravo Company and two more for Golf Battery—with no casualties—was good enough for one day’s action. It entered his mind that with a body count of four it might be more than good enough, but he decided not to ask any questions that might put Simpson in a bad light—or himself, for that matter, for not trusting his officers. He watched Simpson writing in a notebook, his face even redder than usual, and wondered if Simpson was still drinking. When he’d been in First Division at Camp Pendleton, after Korea, Simpson had been drinking quite heavily, but then who didn’t after that damned war. They’d returned home as if they’d been on some goddamned exercise. Blakely he didn’t know. Good-looking guy. Kind you’d see at an embassy. Too young for Korea, so no combat experience. Not his fault. Still, he wished Blakely did have experience. But his record looked good. Good fitness reports. Probably champing at the bit for a battalion. Keep an eye on him. He saw Blakely whisper something to Simpson, and Simpson again wrote in the notebook.

  The intelligence briefing droned on. Sensor readings picked up at coordinates 723621. An AO, air observer, spotted two NVA in the open at coordinates 781632. Elements of Hotel Company, Two Twenty-Four, uncovered two rice caches of fifty kilos each at coordinates 973560. Mulvaney’s thoughts drifted. Why in hell is it always “elements” and not men? Who should he pick for the combined operation? He became aware of a silence and knew it was time for him to ask another question or two.

  After intelligence came the regimental Three on operations, then the medical officer, then supply, then the adjutant, then artillery, then air, then Red Cross liaison from Quang Tri, then the congressional inquiries, and finally the commanders of the battalions.

  Mulvaney watched closely as Simpson strode quickly to the front of the tent: a small man, his jungle camouflage neatly starched, his red face and hands contrasting oddly with the green material. Mulvaney knew that Simpson had been a young lieutenant in Korea at the same time he himself had been there, although they hadn’t known each other then. Simpson had apparently done a fine job—earning a Silver Star and a Purple Heart—and his fitness reports were all excellent. But the scuttlebutt was that there’d been a painful divorce along with the drinking problem. But then, hell, divorces and drinking weren’t exactly uncommon problems in the Marine Corps. Mulvaney watched Simpson pick up Adams’s pointer and turn to face him, waiting for a nod. Mulvaney could see that, as usual, Simpson was nervous as hell. You could tell right away when Simpson didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Simpson turned to the map and began speaking. After showing the dispositions of the companies, he paused a moment for effect. “As you can see, sir, with my companies spread in an arc, here, here, and here”—the pointer whapped the map crisply at each here, fixing in place 175 to 200 Marines at each whap—“and with Bravo Company providing security for Golf Battery here on Matterhorn”—whap—“I have decided it expedient that I move my tactical headquarters immediately to Matterhorn to personally direct operations. With Bravo Company making contact here”—whap—“and Alpha Company here”—whap—“I’m certain we have a sizable NVA unit operating in this area. The supply and ammunition cache found three days ago by Charlie Company here”—whap—“as well as the bunker complex that Alpha uncovered last week here”—whap—“all indicate that this area will soon be highly productive. I intend to be right on the spot when the shit hits the fan. That’s why I’ve already ordered my staff to begin planning for moving my headquarters to Matterhorn.”

  Mulvaney looked blankly at Simpson. Just when he was thinking of using Simpson in the combined operation down in the flatlands, the son of a bitch had decided to get gunjy and move to the fucking bush. As if being out in the goddamned jungle and not being able to see his men was any better than being at VCB and not being able to see his men. Yet Mulvaney couldn’t talk about the operation yet. It would keep his commanders on pins and needles wondering who was going to have to pull up stakes and head for the flats while the South Gooks fiddle-farted around with their wasted goddamned villages, and his old friend and now commander of the division General Neitzel could tell the Army three-star in charge of I Corps, who could report to Abrams in Saigon, that the Marines had “cooperated fully” with the government of the Republic of Vietnam.

  Several people coughed. Simpson seemed unsure what to do and looked back at Blakely for a sign. Blakely brought his eyebrows together and nodded slightly, assuring him that it was OK just to wait.

  “That’s fine, Simpson, fine,” Mulvaney said. Bravo Company. He searched his memory. Bravo Company. Wasn’t Bravo commanded by a young first lieutenant? Fitch, wasn’t it? He’d been the one who’d found an ammo dump and all those 122-millimeter rockets on the Laotian border by Co Roc. Now Mulvaney remembered. He, Neitzel, and some of the bigger Army brass had flown out there to get in a couple of pictures, and Simpson had been hovering around the edge of the group being ignored while the brass were falling all over themselves patting Fitch on the back. Maybe Simpson just couldn’t stand not being in the limelight. Mulvaney
could easily move Simpson back if he needed to. That young Fitch was lucky. Luck was one of the attributes Napoleon considered necessary for a good officer. Napoleon knew his shit. That had been the second time Fitch’s picture was in Stars and Stripes. The first time was just after he’d taken over the company from Black, when Black lost his leg. The kid had fought the company out of a real shit sandwich up on the DMZ. Jesus, that was a bum deal, Black losing his leg. A good career officer. Fitch was a reservist, if Mulvaney remembered right. Christ, they’re almost all reservists now. The regulars were all being chewed up by this . . . thing over here. Still, the kid was lucky. So far. As for Simpson’s sudden hots to get out into the bush, it never hurt to reward initiative, even if initiative came at an inopportune time. And Simpson could be right. That arc of recent firefights . . . Maybe he could compromise, pull back only two of Simpson’s companies. Who knew or cared if Simpson was going up there to control his men better or just get into the limelight? In war, action mattered, not motives. “Just don’t get your ass shot by any gook machine guns when you fly in, Simpson.”

  Mellas found Hawke making coffee in his battered cup on a stove devised from a number ten can. He was using heat tabs, which even at a distance made Mellas’s nasal passages sting.

  “I’d like to put Rider and his team in for some sort of medals,” Mellas said. “They did a hell of a job today.”