This book is for five people. It is for Shan Botley, who shared with me the frustrations and joys of the writing. It is for August Lenniger, who sold it. It is for Charles Heckelmann, who edited it. And it is for my mother and father, without whom the others would have had nothing to do.

Colonel David Tyreen stood at the window and looked past his gaunt reflection at the slashing monsoon rain. His eyes were hooded, and cigarette smoke was strong in his nostrils. He pursed his lips waspishly, glanced at his watch, and turned his back to the window. Ceiling bulbs pulsed faintly with the rhythm of throbbing diesel generators beneath the building: this quarter of Saigon had no city electricity after dark.

David Tyreen crushed out his cigarette and crossed the room to a corner half in shadows. A freckled sergeant sat by the telephone, scrubbing his hands, gazing at the silent black phone with the studied concentration of a monk attending his breviary.

The sergeant spoke without looking up. “It’s nineteen hundred hours, Colonel.”

“You can’t make the damned thing ring, Harris. Relax.”

“I guess there’s time yet,” said Sergeant Harris. The sleeves of his fatigues were rolled up. His hands were red from squeezing. “This is a bitch of a night, ain’t it, sir?”

Tyreen searched the wall map of Vietnam. Red-ink circles marked seven areas, all of them north of the 17th parallel. It was the northernmost target-area that held Tyreen’s attention.

Sergeant Harris said, “We should’ve heard from them by now, sir.”

Within the red circle, crosshatched railroad tracks curved through mountains, intersecting the jagged blue thread of the Sang Chu River. Contour lines, indicating altitude, crowded close together — the sign of steep, broken country. Harris said, “That bridge ain’t no crackerbox. I guess it takes time. But I wish the Goddamn phone would—”

“Shut up,” said David Tyreen.

Rain spattered the roof monotonously. Tyreen whistled a French tune. It fluted loudly around the room. He shut his mouth abruptly. Harris looked at him. Tyreen turned his lip corners down and returned to the window.

A patrol of Canh Sat police pedaled by on bicycles, rain-slickers over their white uniforms. They flashed fragmented reflections. Floodlights threw into relief the main gate a hundred yards away.

David Tyreen was a gaunted man in a trim green jacket. His mouth was bracketed by deep creases. He stared out the window with half-shuttered dark eyes. His skin was beaded with an overlay of sweat; hair the color of old stained leather made a sidewise slash across his forehead. He looked as though he had gone a long time without sleep.

Sentries stood guard around a hangar where most of the command had assembled to watch a USO show. The post was quiet. Two infantry officers passed the window, their helmets bowed against the rain, gesturing in conversation, absently answering the salute of a passing enlisted man. Far to the west, on high ground, Tyreen could see faint white flashes on the horizon: the reflection of white phosphor mortar shells or thermite grenades. Flares arced across the jungle.

Rain trickled down the windowpane and Sergeant Harris sat over the telephone, pawing his brown-freckled face. Tyreen peeled back his sleeve to study his watch. He spoke sotto voce: “Come on, Eddie.”

The telephone rang. Harris snatched it up, and Tyreen strode across the room. The Sergeant spoke a few curt words and hung up. Harris said, “Weather report. All we damn well need right now. Colonel, where’s Captain Kreizler? Where in hell is he?”

Tyreen’s eyes flashed. Harris looked away, toward the wall map. Tyreen’s hand reached the desk and he gripped its edge. A wave of faintness broke over him. He swiveled on one heel and braced a hip against the desk. When the dizziness passed, he stood up with care and walked deliberately toward the door. He turned through it and stopped by the water cooler to fill a paper cup. Inside his pocket, his hand opened a tin and palmed a five-grain quinine sulfate capsule. He slipped it into his mouth and drank.

The hall was empty. He stood by the water cooler, unnaturally tense, as though afraid his body might betray him by faltering. He began to shake, seized by alternate heat and cold. He had to lean against the water cooler.

He heard the creak of the metal door. A shadow filled the opening, outlined in falling rain: a soft-cheeked man in the unmarked fatigues of a war correspondent. “Christ, it’s wet.”

The seizure kept Tyreen silent. The correspondent said, “Lots of weather we’re having.”

Tyreen stood straight. “I thought you people never crawled out of your bottles before midnight, Harney.”

“Haven’t had a chance to get started yet.”

Harney had a round pink face. His eyes seemed to leer at all times. A strong aura of whisky hung suspended around him. “You okay, Colonel?”

“Tired.”

“Sure. Everybody’s tired. Seen the weather report? Typhoon coming off the South China Sea. Due to hit the coast tomorrow morning, up around Da Nang.”

Tyreen glanced through the inner door. Sergeant Harris stared unblinkingly at the wall with one hand across the phone.

“Christ,” said Harney, for no evident reason.

Tyreen plugged a coin into the candy machine and bent to fish out a packet of peanuts. He threw back his head, tossed a handful in his mouth, and chewed with bovine deliberation. His dark eyes seemed to recede back along dark tunnels in his face. He watched Harney sit in a canvas chair and pull out a flat pint bottle of whisky.

Harney said, “I’d say as a general rule Vietnamese women are really beautiful. You find damned few skinny ones or fat ones. Which is more than you can say for any other corn-patch I can think of.” He offered the bottle to Tyreen.

Tyreen declined. Harney droned, “Quart a day keeps the medic away. I go through hell keeping a supply of this rotgut.” He waved a hand around. “We seek no wider war,” he quoted in a singsong drawl. “Crap. Smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

“I just had a physical.” Harney thumbed a cigarette out of a mangled pack. “Want to know what the doctor said to me? He said, ‘Harney, you’ve got a liver that won’t quit. You’ve got a Goddamn pool-shaped liver.’” He burst into laughter, dragged a sleeve across his face, and drank from the bottle.

Tyreen sweated. He leaned against the candy machine, weak and drowsy. Harney said, “You feeling all right? Scout’s honor?”

“What are you rooting around for, Harney?”

“A story. What else?”

“Knowing you, the possibilities are limitless.”

Harney chuckled politely. “Everybody’s on the lip of something, and I’m out of it. I don’t like being out of it. I don’t get paid not to know things.”

Tyreen said absently, “Let the magazine save some paper this time around.”

“That’s like telling a fellow to stop his watch to save time.” Harney sat back and sucked at his bottle, looking like a man ready to relax and reminisce. Tyreen looked into the office again; the phone was still on the hook. The chills came again. He said, “I’ll take one of your smokes now.”

Harney tossed him the pack and a book of matches. “A fellow gets sick of living on press-release handouts from MAC–V and the Dien Hong palace, Colonel.”

“Sorry, Harney.”

“Security,” Harney said, and sighed. “You can’t blame me for asking. You’re about as lavish with information as a Goddamn Vermonter. You come from New England?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. You talk like a cracker. Texas?”

Tyreen lighted his cigarette. Harney said, “Want a swig of Valley Tan? You look like you could use it.”

“No.”

“Everybody out here seems to talk like Confederate rejects or refugees from the Hatfield-McCoy feud. It’s a Southern army. Speaking of which, I saw a friend of yours this morning — that colonel from Atlanta. What’s his name? Urquhart, isn’t it? Colonel Urquhart. His battalion just got transferred down to this sector from Qui Nhon to reinforce Colonel Farber’s outfit. You seen Urquhart?”

“No.”

“I guess maybe they’re shipping them straight on out to the enclave. Hell of a flap going on down there.” Harney looked out through the window; the white flashes were bright on the horizon. “Maybe a regiment of Vietcong. They love suicide, the little bastards. I was up in the tower, watching for a while. The Air Force is murdering them. Napalm, the whole enchilada. You sure you don’t know anything I can use, Colonel? On the record or otherwise.”

“Not a thing.”

“Well,” Harney said, “maybe I’ll check back with you later, hey?” He slipped into his raincoat and paused in the doorway, but seemed unable to think of anything to say; he made a sharp turn through the door, and Tyreen saw his head bob past the window.

Tyreen finished his smoke, alone in the outer room. He had a nervous habit of pursing his mouth and then turning his lips sharply down at the corners; his mouth was moving in a set rhythm. He looked down at the shine on his shoes and then lifted his head to listen to the chugging of helicopters overhead. The smell of whisky lingered from Harney’s visit.

Rain, soft and thick, splashed on the window’s outer sills. He went back into the office. His pulse throbbed. Sergeant Harris had given up the crossword puzzle; the newspaper lay folded on his desk. The headlines were flat, lifeless: yesterday’s news. MARINES CAPTURE VC DEPOT AT CAM THOU. Tyreen pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his eyes shut. He listened to the quiet drip of the diminishing rainfall. The quinine sulfate was taking effect; he felt drowsy.

The telephone rang.

Sergeant Harris reached for the instrument. Tyreen brushed Harris’s hand away and picked up the receiver. He held it to his ear, not speaking. There was a pause, a crackle of static on the line. Then on the phone Captain Theodore Saville’s round, deep voice boomed at him, startling him:

“David?”

“Go ahead, Theodore. Are we scrambled?”

“Yes. Bad news, I’m afraid.”

After a moment, Tyreen said, “All right. From the top.”

“They didn’t make it at all.”

Tyreen drew in a long, thin breath and let it out slowly. His eyes flickered to the red-crayon circle on the wall map — the railroad bridge across the Sang Chu River. He glanced at Sergeant Harris’s silent, expectant eyes and shook his head. Harris’s face fell. Tyreen said into the telephone, “What about Eddie Kreizler, Theodore?”

Theodore Saville’s voice rumbled across the wires: “Eddie is down. Dead or captured. Probably captured, and his exec with him. Corporal Smith thinks they were captured. Smith got away.”

“The only survivor?”

“Anyhow the only one who walked away. He said they marched right into it. The Reds were waiting for them.”

“Somebody leaked.”

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Theodore Saville said, and although he was not a subtle man, there was an overlay of sarcasm on his voice.

A bit of peanut had got stuck in Tyreen’s back teeth. He worked it out with his tongue and swallowed it. Saville said, “Corporal Smith said he’d stand by to receive orders at twenty-three hundred hours.”

“I’ll have to take it upstairs, Theodore. You know that.”

“Yes, sir.” Saville added, “But maybe I ought to start getting a team ready. The job’s got to be finished.”

Tyreen said, “Hang on a minute.” He glanced at Sergeant Harris. “Get General Jaynshill on one of the other phones.”

Harris got up. Tyreen said, “All right, Theodore. Get the crew together and stand by.”

“Who’s going to command?”

“I’ll try to get Major Parnell.”

“He’s pretty sick.”

“I’ll worry about that, Theodore,” Tyreen said gently.

“I’ll have to scrounge like hell. Too many new offensives — all the best men are way out in the field with Special Forces units.”

“Do what you can.”

“Sure. Good luck, David.” Saville swore mildly. “I wish to God we had time to fly a reliable team down from Guam or someplace. Who knows what these people will do when it gets hot? I’ve only got one halfway reliable pilot left for this kind of work, and even he’s hard to trust — for all I know, he’s passed out right now with a Vietnamese broad and a bottle. This could be a mess, David — if just one of these bozos cracks at the wrong moment, we’re all up shit creek.”

Tyreen smiled gently. He had a vision of Captain Theodore Saville, big and round like the voice — a sergeant-major by nature, a military mother hen. Tyreen said, “Take care, Theodore,” and hung up the receiver.

A truck surged past the Quonset hut. Sergeant Harris said, “Line’s busy, Colonel.”

“Keep trying. And in the meantime call Major Thomas at Bien Hoa. I’ll want a jet standing by for me at twenty-three thirty hours to fly me up to Nha Trang.”

Harris was reaching for the telephone when it rang. He listened to a voice that squawked metallically; when he hung up he said, “Another Goddamn radar weather report. That typhoon’s zeroing in on Da Nang. Due to hit the coast around nine tomorrow morning. That going to slow us down, Colonel?”

“We’ll try to beat the storm. Try the General again.”

After a moment Harris shook his head. “Still busy. I’ll call the Air Base.”

Tyreen turned and stared at the wall map. Tacked up beside it was a strip of overlapping aerial photographs: jungle-covered mountains, the seacoast running northeast-southwest along the right-hand edge of the strip. A whitechalk circle surrounded the area where the darker green canyons of the Sang Chu, slicing through the mountains, crossed the westward surge of the railroad tracks. The bridge itself was not shown in the photographs; the concave cliffs of the Sang Chu gorge overhung the bridge. It was invulnerable to aerial attack.

A string of monotonous curses droned through Tyreen’s mind. He turned back to the desk. Sergeant Harris covered the telephone mouthpiece and said, “Major Thomas ain’t on duty right now, sir. I got the duty officer. He’s making static.”

Tyreen beckoned. Harris handed him the phone, and Tyreen spoke into it: “Colonel Tyreen here. Who’s this?”

“Captain Grove speaking, Colonel. I understand you want an aircraft and pilot.”

“That’s right, Captain. What’s the flap?”

“Can you give me the purpose of the mission, sir?”

Tyreen said, “I’m calling on General Jaynshill’s authority, Captain,” and winked solemnly at Harris, who regarded him with bland round eyes.

The answer was a long time coming. Presently the telephone squawked: “General Jaynshill left here two hours ago, Colonel, and he didn’t say anything about needing a plane tonight. Sir, I’ve got a dozen priority missions for every available jet on this field. People are trying to claw the walls down around here, demanding air support for ground operations all over the map. I’ve got pilots taking off right now who’ve flown at least sixteen sorties since noon today — and in this weather. Before I can release a jet for passenger-carrying purposes, I’m afraid I’ll have to have a general’s signature in writing. I’m sorry, Colonel.”

Tyreen took a long breath. “You’re new on the base staff, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“Before you refuse me that plane, Captain, I’d suggest you get in touch with your superior officer.”

Sergeant Harris made a point of studying his fingernails. Tyreen listened to the telephone with impassive features. The Air Force Captain spoke deliberately: “Major Thomas has been standing alerts for two and a half days without sleep, Colonel. He’s asleep on a cot behind the ops room. I wouldn’t have the nerve to wake him up for anything less than a direct bombardment on this base. I’ve got full responsibility for aircraft releases as long as I’m duty officer here, and I’m afraid I’ll have to stand by what I said before, sir.”

Tyreen clamped his teeth together. “You get me that plane, Captain, or in the morning you’ll be looking for a new job.”

He could hear the man breathing on the far end of the line. Tyreen’s nostrils dilated. He saw Harris looking at him with one arced eyebrow; he felt like saying to Harris, “God damn it, I’ve got a right to pull rank — that’s what rank is for.” But he said nothing. Into the phone he added more mildly, “I’ll be there at twenty-three hundred hours with written authorization from General Jaynshill, Captain. If I don’t produce it, you can scrub the flight. But have the plane standing by for me. Understood?”

“You’ve made yourself clear, Colonel.” The Air Force Captain didn’t bother to disguise the resentment in his voice. There was a rush of sound over the phone — a jet taking off. Someone evidently opened the Captain’s door: in the background Tyreen could hear the rattle of voices spitting takeoff and air-traffic instructions into microphones in the control tower. The Captain said, “Can you hang on just a minute, Colonel? I may have something for you.”

“All right.” Tyreen cupped the phone and spoke to Harris.

“Get on another phone. Get through to the General’s aide and ask him to hold a line open for me.”

Harris nodded, slipped out of the chair, and dogtrotted out of the room. The phone began to blurt. Tyreen lifted it to his ear:

“—seem to have something you can use, Colonel. The maintenance hangar’s got a two-place jet trainer being fixed up. The shop crew figures to roll it out on the line by twenty-three hundred hours. I’ll scrape up a pilot for you somewhere. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Good enough, Captain. Sorry to get rough with you. Thanks for the trouble.”

“No trouble, sir. But one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Please don’t forget to bring me something with the General’s signature.”

“I’ll have it, Captain.” Tyreen hung up. He saw Harris coming in, sleepy-eyed. Harris said:

“The General’s on the phone with MAC–V headquarters. As soon as he’s finished, he’ll call you.”

Tyreen felt a twinge of fever chill. He pictured himself standing at the window again, waiting for the telephone to ring. “No,” he said aloud. “Get back to the General’s aide. Tell him I’m on my way over there. Call me a jeep from motor pool.” He walked toward the coatrack.

Slashing knives of rain cut through the young Vietnamese’s thin fatigue shirt, drenching his flesh. A tangled knot of soaked hair hung down across his eyes, and he lacked the energy to push it away. He moved like a mechanism, listening to water spurt in his combat boots; he trod the street slowly with his head bent so that he did not see the glisten of lighted windows, except in their reflection on dappled pools among the cobblestones. A jeep emerged from the night and whipped past, flinging up a sudden cloud of water that struck him a blow and fell away; the jeep’s red taillight turned a corner and then he was again alone on the street. Squat, dark buildings made an obscure gorge of the Rue Catinat; the whorehouses down the street were closed except for their lonely beacon lights. Soon it would be curfew: pedestrians appeared now and then, hurrying on last-minute errands. With the peculiar dryness of watersoaked cotton, his socks rubbed his feet uncomfortably.

With nothing at all in mind, he stepped into the alcove of a shop doorway and stood in temporary protection from the warm, steamy rain. A light across the street flickered dimly in reflection on the glass show windows of the clothing shop. His eyes lifted to the uncertain reflected blankness of his own face, half obscured by a clothes dummy in a black ao-dai beyond the window. The dummy stared back at him, unruffled. Its face was as gray as the rain.

He took little notice of his own face in the glass. It was young, square, tough, weary. His dark hair was matted; his face jutted at cheekbones and jaw, wide across the eyes, thick at the neck. He wore sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves.

He inspected the luminous dial of his watch and stared again at the quietly pattering gray rain. He heard the grumble of a vehicle traveling a nearby street. Saigon was quiet: dimly in the distance he could hear the crump-crump of artillery fire from the offensive to the west.

A cyclo-pousse came in sight; the bicycle-driven rickshaw went by, moving silently and without lights. For a moment his attention was absorbed by sight of the squat driver’s pajama-like shirt, rain-pasted to the man’s back.

A jet fanned overhead. By the placement of its lights he made it out to be a Caravelle, and that seemed odd, for Air Vietnam did not ordinarily fly after dark; perhaps it was a high government official or a diplomatic mission.

He went back into the rain, ducking his head, ramming his hands into his pockets. He crossed the central market plaza, threading a thick crowd of refugees and shoppers; he went down a narrower street, passing a wall on his right crowned with bougainvillaea. Even through the oppressive rain he could scent the heavy fragrance of jasmine trees. He had another look at his watch and walked rapidly through an alley, emerging on a wide, tree-overhung boulevard.

Water dribbled down a rainspout and flowed in a rivulet across his path. He stepped over it and went on. From a window above his head a cigarette arced outward, glowed with a red button-tip for an instant and sizzled, and dropped lifeless past his face. The window slammed shut.

He turned the corner, glanced up at the street sign, and blinked when a raindrop touched his eye. His face dropped, turned, regarded the building fronts ahead of him. He counted doors and presently turned into a stone building that was gritty even in the downpour.

A yellow fifteen-watt bulb hung from the cracked plaster ceiling. The frayed carpet led forward to the foot of a narrow stair. When he put his weight on them, the steps creaked. Paint, once yellow, was worn off the centers of the wooden stairs. He went up two flights, came around the head of the stair, and saw a door standing open midway down the hall. A drooping hulk of a man stood in shirt-sleeves in that doorway; the man said, “Nguyen Khang?”

“That’s right.” Sergeant Khang spoke English readily, with a comfortable accent.

“I’m Captain Saville.” The big man stepped back out of sight. Nguyen Khang ran fingers through his drenched hair, shook water from his fingertips, and walked forward to the door. The shirt clung to his wide back and thick round biceps. He put his hand on the edge of the door and swung it shut behind him.

The room was narrow and gloomy. It had a few chairs and a scarred table, and a door standing half open, leading into darkness. Rain pebbled the window.

Sergeant Khang brought his attention back to the host. Black hairy arms hung from Captain Saville’s rolled-up sleeves; his biceps and torso were corded with knotty muscle. His bootlaces were untied. He was half bald, and in his hand he held an open bottle of Vietnamese beer. The beer hung strong in Khang’s nostrils.

Saville said, “Drink?”

“I could use something to eat,” Khang said, and added, “sir.”

“Sure,” Saville murmured. “Take a hot shower and put on my robe in there. It’s dry.”

Sergeant Khang stood with his feet planted wearily. “Maybe we ought to get to business first.”

“You’re in no condition to listen. Go on.”

“All right. Thanks.” Khang spoke with a weary twang. He crossed the room, reached through the door to find a pushbutton light switch, and went in. The kitchen, cramped and disorderly, lay ahead of him, and to his right was a narrow door into a bathroom.

He had his shower and found a comb for his hair. A long crack ran diagonally down the mirror, distorting his face. He slid into the Captain’s overflowing terry-cloth house robe and padded out to the kitchen. Sizzling cracks retorted from the stove, where Saville stood pushing bacon and potatoes around in a frying pan with a fork. Beaded sweat glittered on Saville’s brown forehead. He pointed to a wooden chair.

Khang sat, alerted by the strong, greasy scent of food in the close air. Saville turned off the burner and scraped the food into a plate, which he handed to Khang. The Sergeant ate from his lap. “You live here, Captain?”

“No. We just use the place now and then. It’s less public than the base.” Saville put his shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his huge arms. His eyes were half closed. “You’re still bushed.”

“I guess I am,” Sergeant Khang said. “We were marching three days and nights. I just got back day before yesterday. Been sleeping most of the time since.”

“I know,” Saville said. A little smile moved across his fleshy face. “This the first food you’ve had today?”

“Yes.”

Saville’s huge body moved. He opened a cabinet and brought out a ragged half-loaf of hard, crusty bread. He handed it to Nguyen Khang without comment, picked up his beer, and resumed his post, leaning against the door. “We’re waiting for another fellow. Sergeant Sun. Know him?”

“What’s his first name?”

“Nhu Van Sun.”

“I don’t think so. What does he do?”

“A little of everything. Like all of us. Sniper, bush tracker, judo and karate. Good with booby traps.”

“Then what do you need me for?”

“You know the country up there,” Saville said.

Khang’s lips, upturned in a courteous smile, went flat and lifeless. “Up where, Captain?”

“North of the seventeenth parallel.”

The Sergeant set his plate down and stood up. “Wait a minute, Captain. You can’t ask me to go back up there. That’s like cutting my throat with a dull knife. They want me up there — they want me real bad.”

“I know,” Saville said. “I thought you had backbone, though.”

“Funny thing about backbone, Captain — one end’s got your neck on it, sticking way out.”

“And the other end?” Saville murmured drily. “Look, Sergeant, we’re not just playing king-of-the-hill. You don’t call the game on account of rain. We need you.”

“I’m no use to you dead,” Khang said. “You know what they’ll do to me if they get their hands on me, Captain?”

“The same thing they’ll do to the rest of us, I imagine,” Saville said imperturbably.

Khang had no immediate answer. His eyes flicked casually across Saville’s face and then shot back to it; he said abruptly, “If I don’t volunteer, it proves all Vietnamese are cowards. That’s what you’re thinking.”

“Wrong. You’re not a coward.” Saville was a big-nosed brute, but his eyes were kind. He added gently, “But you can’t expect to fight just when you feel like it.”

The smell of the fried bacon continued to whirl in streaky currents around Khang. Saville said, “You don’t have to volunteer.”

“I am just a dumb slant-eye, Captain, but they taught me that much at Fort Bragg. Another thing they taught me was never to volunteer.”

Saville’s talk rubbed the air with deceptive deep-pitched mildness: “High command is in a hell of a flap, Sergeant. You’re not indispensable. Nobody is. We can do the job without you. But we can do it better and easier with you. You know the country — and that could save our skins. I won’t say that all our lives will depend on you. But it could come to that.”

Khang was still on his feet. He put his thumbs in the pockets of the robe. “What’s the mission, Captain?”

“The rail bridge on the Sang Chu River.”

A long sigh escaped Khang’s chest. “You’re not just fooling around, are you?”

“One team has already tried for it. They were cut to pieces about three hours ago.” Saville’s eyes were the color of rusty iron. “That’s right in the middle of the country where you used to live, Sergeant.”

“Sure. I know every track through there. You can’t get that bridge from the air, I guess — the cliffs get in the way. So you have to do it from the ground. When I left five years ago they had a squad guarding the bridge — that railroad line is part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I imagine they’ve got a whole company of crack troops around there by now.”

“A company of guards with a heavy weapons platoon, and another company of guerrilla squads broken down into constant area patrols. The whole area’s mined and boobytrapped. They’re not stupid — they know how vital the bridge is for them, and how much we want it destroyed. It would take them a good long time to rebuild it.”

Khang picked up the remains of the breadloaf and gnawed on it. His face displayed no curiosity whatever. The big Captain’s unblinking eyes lay against him heavily. Saville said, “A man who’s lost the pride to mind getting wet in the rain is a man who needs something to do.”

“Or a man who’s worn out, Captain. Shot to shingles.” Khang’s jaws worked regularly on the bread.

“You’re young and you’re tough.”

“Well,” Khang said. The last mouthful of bread disappeared. Yellow lamplight glimmered faintly on his eyes. They moved in a slow arc to the window; he watched large round drops of water sliding down. His own breathing became a loud sound in the room. He said, “My brother and I used to play on that bridge. When I was seven, I saw a kid fall off the thing. It’s a long drop, three or four hundred feet. You bounce off the outcrops a few times on your way down. My brother wasn’t that lucky — he had to wait and grow up before he got killed. They decided he was a traitor to the People’s National Liberation Front. I forget exactly why.”

“They shot him.”

“Sure.”

“And that’s when you defected to the south.”

Khang shrugged. “All right, Captain. Let’s blow up your bridge.” He was very tired; he sat down and tilted his head back against the wall.

Saville changed into his dress greens and shouldered into his raincoat. “Get your clothes on and be ready to move out. I’m going out to round up a few other people. Sergeant Sun will show up sometime soon — I want you to keep him here until I get back. Help yourself if you get hungry.”

“And the condemned man ate a hearty meal,” said Sergeant Nguyen Khang. “Okay, Captain.”

Saville went out, closed the door, and stood peering at it in thought. He was not quite satisfied with Sergeant Khang. He went down the stairs, and habit made him tread the insides of the steps where they did not creek.

He slipped the transparent plastic rain-cover over his service cap, pulled it low over his eyes, and stepped into the soggy downpour. His jeep was parked behind the building; he drove through the city paying scant attention to the crowds of refugees lining the shelters along the wide streets of the old section. Red Cross workers and South Vietnamese soldiers passed among them distributing goods. Bars of onceused soap kindly donated by Hilton Hotels. Bowls, clothes, rice, cooking pots. A child almost ran in front of his jeep; a woman snatched the child back. Saville drove without hurry. He turned into the gaming quarter and parked the jeep by a South Vietnamese M.P. post and spoke in Vietnamese to the guard corporal:

“Watch the jeep for me.”

The corporal saluted, and Saville walked a block and a half through the rain. A large Vietnamese stood on guard at the door of the Coq D’Or club, a bouncer with the savage dark face of a jungle hunter. Saville came in through the double doors and turned in his hat and raincoat at the cloakroom. A young American lieutenant came by casually and asked the checkroom girl for a pack of cigarettes; the lieutenant glanced at Saville, and Saville said, “When I leave here, Colonel Ninh will probably have a man following me. Get them off me when I’ve gone — I don’t want to be followed.”

“Anything special, Captain?”

“No. But I don’t like being followed by the fat fellow’s errand boys. They’d do better to trail Vietcong sympathizers. It’s a matter of protocol.”

“All right, sir.” The lieutenant’s lips hardly moved as he spoke, and he had only glanced at Saville once. He moved away, unwrapping his cigarette pack.

Saville moved slowly through the crowded room, peering idly through the cloud of swirling smoke hanging under the low ceiling. A trio of musicians played on a small bandstand at the far end of the room. Most of the customers wore officers’ uniforms. A group of girls sat around a table desultorily playing dice games; a young man spoke in one girl’s ear, and she left the table with him, giving the young man a calculated smile. Saville reached the bar and studied each face down its length.

A fat Vietnamese colonel made a place beside him and smiled with his teeth. “Good evening to you, Captain.”

“Colonel Ninh,” Saville said, dipping his head slightly.

Colonel Ninh seemed in no hurry to speak. At the green table in the center of the club, dice raced the length of the felt and the croupier spoke: “Sept, messieurs.” Two Vietnamese officers sat at a small table playing Nim with ivory markers. A girl moved past in a high-collared black dress; Colonel Ninh reached out and pinched her arm. The girl turned a brief professional smile on him, a dip of long eyelids. Colonel Ninh’s belly pushed against the matted creases of his uniform blouse. Saville heard the steel ball spin under the rim of the roulette wheel and the monotonous voice of the man beside him talking in French.

Colonel Ninh gave him a long scrutiny. “A drink, Captain?”

“Whisky. Thank you.”

The fat Colonel was an oily man with a fowl’s neck and an immense mouth; he was unpleasant and seemed to take pleasure in it. The drinks were set before them. Saville lifted his glass in toast: “Cheers!”

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Saville, and pushed back his sleeve to look at his watch.

Colonel Ninh pounced at him: “An appointment, Captain?”

“There are such things,” Saville agreed. “Thanks for the drink, Colonel.”

The fat man said suddenly, “You are a dangerous man.” “Only a soldier, Colonel. Like yourself. No creature is dangerous if you don’t offend it.” He moved away from the bar and heard Colonel Ninh’s voice:

“Bon soir, Captain.”

Two Americans sat at a far table under a wall fixture with its bulb surrounded by the leaves of a potted rubber plant. They both wore the wings of Army Aviation pilots. Saville made his way to their table and said, “Evening, George.”

The smaller of the two men lifted a cognac snifter lazily. “Captain. A thousand welcomes. Have a seat. Mister Shannon, make room for the good Captain Saville. Oh Captain, my Captain—”

The young Warrant Officer pushed his chair back under the rubber plant, and Saville took a chair from an empty table beside them. Lieutenant George McKuen regarded him with a bemused smile. Saville said, “How drunk are you, George?”

“Not very. But I just started.”

“Good.”

“Good? My dear Captain, don’t tell me you’ve joined the temperance movement? If I’d known, I can assure you I’d never in my wildest fancies thought to invite you to join our select company. And besides—”

“I’d like to talk to you,” Saville said, glancing at the young Warrant Officer.

“Oh,” McKuen said. “Beg pardon. Captain Saville, meet my new co-pilot. Philip Shannon. I told them I wouldn’t accept any assignment whose veins didn’t flow with the blood of the auld sod. Somehow, you see, the usual red tape got entangled, because miracle of miracles, I got just what I asked for — an Irishman down to his boots. Philip, me lad, show the good captain a sample of your inimitable brogue, that’s a good lad, now.”

Saville said, “What happened to Barney Stein?”

“A wound,” Lieutenant McKuen said sorrowfully. “Aye, a terrible wound. We were flying into the valley of death, Captain, and the bullets flew thick as hornets.” McKuen gesticulated wildly. “Verily and poor Barney Stein took a nine millimeter right through the shoulder. They’ve shipped him home to the States. To bloody Brooklyn, in fact. Now, Barney was a nice lad, a fine lad, but as you see he plainly lacked the necessary brand of faith and good fortune which sustains us in our great hour of need. Which is why I found it necessary to demand that Barney’s replacement be as thickly Irish as me self — although as you see he’s not quite so redheaded.”

Warrant Officer Shannon’s hair was brown. McKuen’s was brick red; it stood straight up from his head like a curry brush. Saville said, “You were born in Cincinnati, George, and I haven’t got time for yarns.”

“Well, in that case, let’s us be getting to business,” McKuen said with high cheer. He turned and waved to a waitress. She stopped by Saville’s shoulder. Warrant Officer Shannon said, “Three cognacs, mademoiselle.”

“And I’ll have the same,” McKuen said.

“Belay that,” Saville growled. He waved the waitress away. “No more for these two, Miss.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” McKuen exploded.

Saville studied Shannon’s face: reserved, young, good-humored in a quiet way. And bold enough. Shannon said, “When you get through, Captain, tell me if you like what you see.”

“I haven’t got much choice,” Saville said. “I need you two.”

“It’s nice to be needed,” McKuen observed. “What for?”

“A parachute drop in the Sang Chu valley.”

“Where?” McKuen’s hands became still. “The Sang Chu? Captain, correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s so far north that if we overshot by two minutes we’d be over Red China.”

“Not quite, but close.”

“You’re off your bloody head,” McKuen said.

“This is a volunteer mission,” Saville murmured. “You volunteer, or you get me for an enemy.”

McKuen stared at him without humor. “I’ve my choice of you or Ho Chi Minh, have I? I think I’d prefer Uncle Ho.”

“Uncle Ho can’t get his hands on you as easily as I can, Lieutenant.”

McKuen sighed. “What’s the craft we’re to fly?”

“The gooney bird we captured last week.”

Warrant Officer Shannon glanced quickly at McKuen and then turned an angry glance on Saville. “I’ve seen that crate in the hangar, Captain. I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to fly that thing. It’s falling to pieces.”

“It flew down here. It’ll fly back. And remember this — the plane’s unmarked. The Reds won’t turn their antiaircraft on it if they think it’s one of their own planes.”

McKuen said, “How much time do we have to think about it?”

“You don’t,” Saville said. He stood up. “Let’s go.”

Shannon looked at McKuen. McKuen’s shoulders lifted, and he pushed his chair back. “Anything for kicks,” he said. “After you, my Captain darling.”

Brigadier General Martin Jaynshill was a powerful man with a blunt head and cropped iron-gray hair. His face, elegant and arresting, had the texture of a honing stone. He stood by his desk with the resigned expression of a man who had not been permitted to go to bed when fatigue demanded it of his body. His eyes flicked across Colonel David Tyreen’s face. “I was expecting to see you yesterday.”

“General, you’re always expecting me yesterday.”

“I gather it’s pretty urgent?”

Tyreen waited for the sergeant to close the door on them. The General smoked a cigar, showing his teeth around it. Tyreen said, in a very dry tone, “One of our captains is missing.”

“That seems to be the name of the game.” The General sat down and nodded toward an armchair. “Even benzedrine loses its effectiveness after a while. Did you know that? How are you feeling these days?”

“All right,” Tyreen said offhandedly. He started to go on, but the General cut in:

“Bill McQuestion will be swinging through here next week. That’s why I asked. It wasn’t just an idle question.”

Tyreen said, “I’m as healthy as you are.”

“David, nobody’s as healthy as I am.”

Tyreen squinted at him, expecting trouble. General Jaynshill said, “One of the reasons I asked Bill McQuestion to come by here was because I wanted him to have a look at you.”

“I had a physical a couple of months ago.”

“Which you passed with flying colors.” The General turned hard: “David, have you got your brains up your ass or what? How much did it cost you to get a clean bill of health?”

“General,” Tyreen said carefully, “I hope you don’t think it’s easy to bribe medical officers. Because—”

“I didn’t say it was easy. But I did read the report. It said ‘Recovery complete’ — and that’s not what I expected to see. Do you want to know what the last hospital report on you was? I can quote it for you. Tertian malaria. Incurable. I asked Bill McQuestion what that meant. You can’t get rid of it, David. You can control it, like diabetes, if you know how to handle it. It takes care. Care and rest.”

Tyreen’s chin lifted. Tautness and anger were ground into the lines around his mouth. He said nothing. General Jaynshill said, “Doctor McQuestion will be here early next week. I’ve made arrangements for him to see you. I expect you to be there — Tuesday at ten.”

“And it hurts you more than it hurts me.”

“Maybe. I’ve got no right to keep you on duty, the shape you’re in. Hell, David, you’re not even in shape to get in shape. You need three months in hospital, six months convalescence, and then a nice routine job where you can put your feet up on a desk until you retire. And that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”

“Thanks,” Tyreen said bluntly.

“You’re physically unfit to hold your job. It comes right down to that.”

“Martin, I’ve seen baboons that wouldn’t claim you for a friend.”

The General put the heels of his palms against the desk and stood. “I’m sick of this war and weary of fools. I don’t have the energy to argue. You’re stubborn — you’ve got the courage of righteousness — you’ve done a pretty good job down here. But we’re going into new phases all the time. You’re being phased out. That’s as clear as I can make it, isn’t it? Phased out the way any component gets phased out when it’s rusty and needs repairs.”

Tyreen shook his head. “You’ve never beaten around the bush with me before. Don’t tell me any of this comes as sudden news to you — you’ve known my condition for months. Somebody put you up to this. It came straight down from Washington, didn’t it?”

“Don’t take that hurt attitude with me, David. You know what a man has to do when he sits behind my desk.”

“It was the Cambodes,” Tyreen said. “Wasn’t it?”

The General replied with unreasonable violence, “Drop it, David. Drop — it.”

But the General’s face colored under Tyreen’s stare. Tyreen knew, with brittle-clear prescience, just how it would go from there. But he had to push it through; to accept it without hearing it aloud would be an affront to his own orderly dignity. He said, “I ordered the raids across the border into Cambodia. To bust up the VC concentrations over there. And you’re sacking me for that?”

The General glanced at the spiral of smoke rising from his cigar. Tyreen said, “Before it was issued, you knew I was going to give the order. You could have countermanded it any time.”

“I knew nothing of that order until after the raids had come off,” General Jaynshill said woodenly.

Tyreen sat bolt upright. Then, meeting the General’s hooded stare, he sat back. All he said was, “I see.”

“Maybe you don’t.” The General crammed his cigar into a big glass ashtray. “It wasn’t a question of your job or mine. If I passed the buck to you, at least it wasn’t to save my own hide.”

The General came around the desk and planted himself in front of Tyreen. “I ask you to believe in me that much.”

“God damn it, of course I believe you.”

Jaynshill put his back to him and clasped his hands. “A cardinal rule of guerrilla warfare — you’ve got to cover your tracks. You forgot that rule when you ordered those penetrations into Cambodia.”

“All right,” Tyreen said slowly.

“I didn’t countermand that order, David. I deliberately put your neck in the noose.”

“Why?”

“Because the job had to get done. Someone had to order it done.”

“And we are all expendable.”

“Cambodia raised hell. We violated their neutrality. They are pissed off, David. Somebody’s head has to roll. Cambodia knows who ordered the raids. They have your name and your photograph, thanks to their friends in South Vietnamese intelligence. And they are patiently waiting to see whether we do anything about you or not. And yes, you’re expendable — more expendable than most, because it was only a matter of weeks or months before I’d have had to ship you home in a casket if I’d kept you on duty much longer. Look, David, you know the rules out here. They’re the same as the rules you played by when you were a little kid. You can do anything, so long as you don’t get caught. The only punishable crime is getting caught.”

“Who caught me, Martin?”

The General stared at him. “We’ve got a dirty little war here that ought to be wiped off the books and forgotten, but it won’t be, because it’s taking place inside a glass fishbowl. People who live in glass fishbowls can’t afford to get caught. The Army can’t take this kind of pressure. The country can’t take it, and my command can’t take it. You’ve been convicted, and if we don’t pass sentence on you, then the sentence will be passed on the rest of us. If that happens enough times, we’ll lose this war no matter how hard we fight out there in the jungle.”

Tyreen lighted up a cigarette. A chill passed. He said stupidly, “Do you really think sacking me will solve the problem? Do you think anybody will believe those raids weren’t okayed by my superior?”

“Generals only salute what their subordinates run up the pole. We haven’t time to watch you stitch the flag. The Cambodes may not believe that, but they’ll accept it. All they want is enough to appease their injured vanity.”

“And I’m just a white poker chip.”

“In a no-limit game,” the General agreed. He added softly, “Please, David, don’t escalate my problems.” He wheeled away and tramped heavily across the room.

Tyreen said, “Do I have anything to say about all this?”

“Not a thing.”

Tyreen nodded. A bright glint pushed out of his eyes. “All right. I’ll go home and prop my feet on a desk. I won’t go to work on McQuestion to whitewash my medical report. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t want it. I’ve got to have it.”

“Then let’s forget it,” Tyreen said.

“I won’t forget it, David — but I’ve got a job to do.” The General parted the blinds and peered out at the rain. He murmured, “We’re in a Goddamned lonely business.”

“You’re a bastard, Martin.”

“What else do you like about me?”

Tyreen closed his eyes momentarily. He heard the scrape of the General’s shoes. When he opened his eyes, the General was coming away from the window. Tyreen said, “Captain Kreizler is down, up north. Remember Unit Seventeen?”

The General’s big head lifted slowly. “Eddie Kreizler? Was he assigned one of those kamikaze units of yours?”

“If that’s what you want to call them.”

“Christ, I wish I’d known. I’d have reassigned him to something with a reasonable life expectancy.”

“He’s the best officer I’ve got up there,” Tyreen said. “If you’d tried to pull him out of there, I’d have fought you.”

“Eddie Kreizler,” the General said. “He was my exec in Korea. A hell of a good fullback at the Academy.” He turned. “What’s happened to him, David?”

Tyreen’s dark eyes flickered. “His unit reported tonight. Not too much to it. We’ll get another report at eleven. Captain Saville tells me Kreizler’s outfit walked into a Vietminh trap. One corporal got away. Kreizler may not be dead.”

Jaynshill gave him a lacquered look. “He might be best off, dead.”

“If they’ve got him alive, you can imagine what kind of information they’ll be getting out of him.”

“Maybe they haven’t got him. Maybe he’s lying out there in the boondocks bleeding.”

“Uh-huh,” Tyreen said.

“Find out.” The General’s teeth clicked. “Find out. If he’s alive in their hands, it kills the value of every piece of expensive, dangerous work he had anything to do with.”

“And he had plenty of that. His ‘A’ Team was coordinating headquarters for all our units in the area.”

“What was his mission, specifically?”

“The bridge,” Tyreen said.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“You told me to put my best team on it,” Tyreen said quietly.

“You son of a bitch,” Jaynshill said. “Eddie Kreizler, wasted on a suicide job. Christ, David.” His eyelids dropped, covering his thoughts. He had a way of working around a subject when it was distasteful. He said, “I’m getting old, I guess.”

“It’s not pleasant.”

“I stopped expecting life to be pleasant when I was ten years old. But this — you don’t let things hit you like this. At least I never did. But you get old, I guess. But at least I can still press a barbell. If I looked half as old as you do, I’d quit without anybody urging me. How old are you — forty-three?”

“I don’t feel a day over ninety.”

“Forty-three. Still a colonel. If you hadn’t argued with too many generals, David, you’d be a brigadier by now.” Jaynshill rubbed his eyes. “All right. About Kreizler. You’ll have to send a team up there. The best you can find. If you find the VC have him prisoner and he’s still alive, it can only mean they plan to make further use of him. You’ll have to get him out fast. If your team can’t get him out immediately, they’ll have to kill him.”

“Kill Eddie Kreizler?”

“Those are your orders.”

Tyreen said slowly, “Do you really think that fruit salad on your hat gives you the right to do that? You set yourself up as an august body of one to—”

The General cut him off: “The things that keep troubling you, David, are standards that are totally irrelevant in war.”

“Simple to state,” Tyreen said viciously. “Martin, you—”

“You think I’m cold-blooded, don’t you?”

“I’d have used a shorter word.” Hot anger sawed through Tyreen. “General, the basic principle is—”

“Don’t try to shout me down, David. You can’t do it. The basic principle — and you ought to know this — the basic principle is that there are no basic principles.”

“You’re playing your part fine, General, but I’m a pretty poor audience. First you get all broken up when you find out I put Kreizler on the line, and now you want me to send an assassin up there to finish the job. It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t make sense to me that you didn’t know Eddie was the man I sent up there to blow the Sang Chu bridge. You had to know. All my rosters go across your desk. And Eddie being almost as good a friend of yours as he is of mine, he wouldn’t have left Saigon without dropping by here first. You didn’t know about Eddie like you didn’t know about my orders to raid into Cambodia. Maybe you’d better let me in on the secret.”

“No. I’m sorry, David. I’m sorry for you, but I’m a hell of a lot more sorry for Eddie Kreizler. He laid himself on the line.”

“Well, then, that’s okay,” Tyreen said. “Everything’s fine, just so long as you’re sorry.”

“Can it, David.”

“All right. I’ll never tell a soul. Let it be our little secret, just you and me and the firing squad that gets rid of what’s left of Eddie after they’re through milking him for information.”

The General said brusquely, “At ease, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir,” Tyreen said acidly.

The General pinched the bridge of his nose and said in a suddenly quiet voice, “It’s going to be a thorny job.”

“Captain Saville’s getting up a team. I’ll want Major Parnell to command it. Wayne Parnell.”

“That’s bad arithmetic, a major for a captain.”

“Under the circumstances Eddie Kreizler’s a pretty important captain.”

The General took a new tack: “Who’s this Parnell?”

“He was transferred to us a month ago. He’s been working with a tribe of Montagnards in Laos.”

“Under the Agency,” General Jaynshill said with distaste. “But he’s not under my command. I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s one of that bunch on temporary assignment at Nha Trang for medical treatment.”

The General stared at him. “And you want to send a sick man into North Vietnam?”

Tyreen said, “He’s due to be released to duty in a few days.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The same thing wrong with half our people. Skin rot, infected feet, dysentery. And a Pathet Lao arrow wound in his ribs.”

“An arrow wound?”

“Crossbow. The Montagnards use them.”

“He sounds as if he’d be a very sick man, if he were alive.”

“He’s healthy enough to complain. And as long as a man’s got something to bitch about, he’s all right. Correct me if I’m wrong, General?”

Jaynshill poked a thick index finger toward him. “That’s my line, David. You’re quoting my own speech. You ought to know better than to throw a man’s own words back at him.”

Tyreen said blandly, “Can I have him?”

The General threw his head back to study Tyreen’s face from under lowered brows. He said, “It’s your baby, David. I’m giving you a mountain, and you’ve got precious few hours to make a molehill out of it. Is this man Parnell the best you can get?”

“I think so.”

“Is he as good as you were?”

“Are, General. Not were.”

“All right,” Jaynshill said. “Can that kind of talk, David. I’ve told you to slow down, and that’s an order. You’ll be headed home in a few days.”

“Yes, sir,” Tyreen murmured. “I guess I will. Can I have Parnell?”

“You can have him, but only on one basis. It’s on a volunteer basis only, David, and I mean volunteer. You do not have my permission to twist the man’s arm. If he doesn’t want to go, send Captain Saville to command the team.”

“Theodore wouldn’t take the job. He doesn’t want to command — he hasn’t got the brains for it, and he knows it.”

The General spread his hands and smiled without humor. “David, I don’t give a damn what the man wants. If Kreizler talks to the Reds, he can wipe out six months’ work. And he will, if they’re given enough time to work on him. He’s got to be freed. Freed or silenced.”

“Silenced,” Tyreen echoed. “With all due respect for your rank, sir—”

“That’s enough.” General Jaynshill sat down and spoke distinctly: “You’ve got your orders, David. I want Kreizler taken care of, one way or the other. I want that railroad bridge blown up. And I want it done immediately. If Major Parnell wants the job, that’s fine — and if he doesn’t, you’ll have to find another man for it. It’s in your lap. If there’s nothing else on your mind, you’d better be on the run, now.”

Tyreen took in a breath and let it out. “There’s one thing. I need written authorization to use a jet trainer and pilot from Bien Hoa up to Nha Trang, to talk to Parnell. There’s a chickenshit Air Force captain on duty out there who won’t give me the plane without your signature.”

“That’s the kind of soldier I can understand,” the General said, and reached for his desk pen.

The French-style phone, almost antique, cackled in Theodore Seville’s ear: “Di dai.”

“Sergeant Khang?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice said guardedly.

“Captain Saville here. Everything all right?”

“I guess so, Captain.”

“Sergeant Nhu Van Sun. He get there yet?”

“Just walked in,” Khang said, and even on the thin twang of the wire Saville detected reserve in Khang’s voice. Saville said immediately:

“Get along with him, Sergeant. He’s a good man.”

“Yes, sir,” Khang said stiffly. “What’s up?”

“You two saddle up and get yourselves out to Tan Son Nhut airport. There’s a C-47 in one of the overhaul hangars near the new jet strip. You’ll find a couple of Army Aviation pilots there. Report to them and wait for me. The senior pilot’s Lieutenant McKuen. Got that?”

“I’ve got it,” Khang said. There was a constant overlay of resentment on his voice whenever he spoke.

“You stick to that airport hangar like flies on sugar until I get there. I’ll be along as soon as I can — maybe an hour. You can shove off right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Khang said, and the phone clicked dead.

Saville cradled the receiver and stepped out of the M.P. booth. Two Canh Sat policemen stood on the street corner, sheltered under a Japanese-style awning at the entrance of a beer club. Cheap dives lined both sides of the narrow street. Saville nodded to the M.P. sentry, took the man’s salute, and turned into the saloon row. The pair of Canh Sat officers came to attention; the soggy, laden air made their white uniforms limp and creaseless. Saville walked past them, speaking a brief Vietnamese courtesy, and turned into the first bar doorway, his hat and shoulders dripping.

A rangy Army captain, stumbling through the crowded haze, collided drunkenly with Saville and whooped. His face was bruised and cut. A half-empty bottle of Vietnamese whisky hung precariously in his grasp. The captain straightened up and brushed at Saville’s raincoat. “Theodore — Theodore. God damn it, Theodore. Where in hell you been?”

“I didn’t figure to find you around here. What in hell do you think you’re doing, Harry?”

“What’s it look like? I’m throwing myself a party.” Harry belched and grinned with foolish slackness. “Let it never be said that Harry Green could hold his liquor. Here you go, Theodore. Try a swig of this. This stuff comes from the rubber plantations. In ten minutes it’ll make you forget your own name. Here — drink up.”

“Not now,” Saville said. From the vantage point of his great height he examined face after face in the smoky, narrow barroom.

Harry leered vacuously at him; Harry’s fist grabbed Saville’s raincoat. Saville said, “What happened to your face?”

“I went to a new barber.” Harry laughed. “Who cares?”

“You look like you slid in to third base on your face, Harry.”

“Well, maybe I did. Hell, I don’t remember. Come on.” Harry tugged Saville toward the near end of the bar.

“I thought you were leaving.”

“Changed my mind. ’S a free country, right?” Harry braced himself against the bar and lifted his head with enormous dignity. “I am going to stand right here on this spot,” he said, “and ossify my Goddamn liver.” He pounded his fist on the bar. “Innkeeper!”

The crowd swelled and drifted, pressing the two men against the bar. Harry said, “How do you like your whisky?”

“In a glass.”

“Funny,” Harry said, and laughed. He was on the brim of hysteria.

“Harry.”

“Huh? What?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Hell, you know me, Theodore. I’m a puking karate expert. Every time I salute, I just about kill myself.” Harry’s eyes teared with laughter. Abruptly he gripped the front of Saville’s coat with both hands. His eyes went wide and round. “I’m drunk, Theodore. I’m plowed under. Jesus, Theodore. Sometimes I forget what this puking war’s all about. You know?” He shook his head. “I can’t finish this bottle of tiger sweat. You take it with you, okay? I’ve had it, Theodore. Get me a couple M.P.s to take me home and pour me into bed. No, no — on second thought, you can’t have the bottle. It might stunt your Goddamn growth.” Harry gave out a bray of laughter and sagged against the bar.

Saville disengaged Harry’s fists from his coat. Harry muttered at him, “I want to put in for a transfer to the Pentagon latrine corps. Effective immediately. See what you can do, Theodore, all right?”

“Shut up a minute,” Saville told him. His eyes swept the room, not missing a single face. Satisfied after his survey, he put an arm around Harry and effortlessly took the smaller man outside.

He walked Harry to the M.P. booth. The guard corporal saluted and watched Harry expressionlessly. Saville said, “You know him, Corporal? Know where he lives?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Green’s been down here three days now. We’ve been watching out for him. He had half his company shot out from under him last week.”

“Get him home, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

Saville turned away. Harry called after him, “G’night, Theodore. Have yourself a Goddamn ball.”

Saville went on down the street and turned into another club. He walked through it, using elbows and shoulders to make a path in the crowd. He did not find the face he sought; he returned to the street and continued his inspection in the next club. The place was full of servicemen and Vietnamese girls. He found a corporal whose name he knew: “I’m looking for Sergeant Hooker. Seen him?”

“J. D. Hooker? He was around here a while back, Captain. Don’t see him now. He’s prob’ly on the street somewheres.”

Saville turned to retrace his path. A piece of conversation reached his ears: “Me? Hell, I’m the greatest Goddamn swimmer you ever saw. I swam ten miles once, with a puking safe on my back.” Saville walked outside, into the rain. A boisterous racket started up, and he turned his face to the left. The noise came out of a doorway across the street. He quartered across the cobblestones toward the commotion. Before he reached the door, two Vietnamese soldiers tumbled out the doorway, propelled by a powerful roar from within the place.

There was hardly any light in the street. The two Vietnamese picked themselves up and started to limp away. A simian figure filled the doorway, outlined in its light. One of the Vietnamese blundered against Saville in his flight; Saville knocked the man aside with the heel of his hand and strode straight up to the doorway. The heavy man in the door leaped at him with a growl. Saville blocked the man’s fist, wheeled past, and bent the man’s arm up behind, almost to the shoulder blade; Saville put his knee in the man’s back and held him that way, helpless.

“All right, Sergeant. Cut it out, now.”

“You let go my arm, God damn you.”

“If ever a sergeant was begging to be busted, Hooker—”

“What the hell? Who are you? Captain Saville?”

“That’s it.” Saville released Hooker. The squat Sergeant retreated into the doorway, massaging his arm. He had the biggest nose Saville had ever seen; he had inky fingernails; he needed a thorough laundering. His face was not very bright. He wore his hair cut short, but just the same, there was a lot of it. He stood five-and-a-half feet tall and probably weighed two hundred pounds.

“Jesus, Captain. You come on like Tarzan. Where’d you learn to fight?”

“From a tougher man than you.”

“You tricked me — nobody ever beat me in a fair fight.”

“Sergeant, you never gave anybody a fair fight. We take it for granted you’ve got guts. You don’t need to prove it by fighting our own people.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but they was gooks. They was peckerheads. And I...”

“Save your assaults for the enemy, Sergeant. Understand?”

“Okay, Captain. Send me to military school.” Saville murmured, “Let’s not have a brouhaha, fella.”

J. D. Hooker had large, greasy pores on his nose. He said slowly, “You let them two peckerheads get away from me. If you wasn’t an officer, you could lose some teeth that way.”

“As you were, Sergeant. Where’s your hat?”

“Inside.”

“Get it.”

Saville waited at the door. When Hooker came out, tugging on his cap, Saville turned to face the man squarely. “You’re on duty as of now.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a new ‘A’ Team flying out of here tonight. You’re on it.”

Hooker stopped in his tracks. “Wait a minute,” he said, and considered it. “Wait a minute. I’m short, Captain. Only got two weeks to go on this tour of duty. I don’t aim to get greased, not in no two weeks, not after all the crap I been through. I’ve had all the gung-ho I can use.”

Saville had a voice like a bassoon. He put his big fleshy face close to Hooker’s. “You’re volunteering for this one, Sergeant, or we’ll have a Summary Court Martial for you about those medical supplies missing from the Surgeon General’s warehouse. Make up your mind — right now.”

“Jesus,” Hooker said.

“Don’t complain, Sergeant. You’ll get an extra fifty dollars a month hazardous-duty pay.”

“For doing what?”

“Demolition work.”

A slow smile peeled back J. D. Hooker’s thick lips. “Bet your ass,” he said. Then he flattened his mouth. “Who’s on this team besides us, Captain? Any peckerheads? I ain’t going to work with peckerheads. You can’t trust none of them gooks.”

“You’ll work with whoever you’re told to work with,” Saville told him.

“Piss on that noise. I ain’t going to have no—”

Saville took one step forward. “I want you to listen to me real close, Sergeant, in case this comes as news to you. You do not question the orders of a superior officer, and you do not make any remarks about Vietnamese where I can hear them. Is that clear?”

“You got a nice loud voice, Captain.”

“For a fact,” Saville said. “Now come on.”

David Tyreen felt a sour taste in his mouth. The jeep bucked to a halt outside the airfield’s operations building, and Tyreen made a dash for the Quonset-covered doorway, his head bowed against the steady rain. Braving the weather, aircraft landed and took off with steady frequency, guided by runway lights and the hard shine of flares. Crash crews, soaked to the skin, waited by their emergency vehicles. From here he could clearly see flashes of artillery and mortar explosions to the west where Colonel Farber’s battalion fought a pitched engagement against the Vietcong.

Tyreen reached for the doorknob and stopped there, rain runneling off the awning above him. He watched a crippled F-102 careen down out of the low cloud-cover toward the far runway. The Delta Dagger was limping badly, one wing fluttering toward the ground as it fought to level out. Fire trucks chased the ambulance, wheeling away from their stations with a drumming of skidding tires and the shriek of sirens and clang of bells. The wounded jet fighter struck the ground on one wheel and a wingtip. Sparks scaled along the ground from the tearing wing. The ship nosed over on its back and skidded, spinning, with an explosive sound of ripping that deafened Tyreen. The plane settled, upside-down and propped up on its tail like a man on one crutch. Tyreen’s breath hung up in his chest, but there was no explosion. Crash trucks rocked into position around the plane; a crew of men ran out a pair of hoses and doused the plane with a flood of foaming chemicals while medics in protective suits ran in under the barrage of liquid to pry the canopy open and extract the pilot like men jimmying a locked-in ice cube out of a hard-frozen tray.

The rescue crew emerged from the foam and Tyreen saw them set a man on his feet; the man stumbled once or twice, threw his head back in laughter, and walked over to the ambulance between two medics.

Tyreen palmed the knob and stepped inside. A sentry stopped him in the corridor and he had to show his pass. He hung his cap and raincoat on a peg and climbed to the tower, stopping twice to show his papers.

In the traffic control tower half the men were hard against the window, watching the activity out by the crashed jet. One man at a desk talked calmly into a microphone, pinching his temples and grimacing as if he had a bad headache. A technical sergeant sat by a radio, listening intently to voices on the headset. He jotted something on a card and passed the card to the man at the microphone.

Raindrops ran down the outside of the big in-tilted observation windows. A young shirt-sleeved Air Force captain came swinging away from the crowd of people, talking irritably:

“All right — all right. Let’s everybody get on the stick. We’ve got work to do.” He picked up a telephone and yelled into it: “Lieutenant, I want a cleanup crew out on that runway, on the double. Get that wreckage off the tarmac. We’ve got five planes coming in from Qui Lai, and they’re all low on fuel.”

The Captain slammed down the phone and turned. He walked toward Tyreen with a careless salute. “You’ll be Colonel Tyreen,” he said; he did not have to add, You’re all I need right now.

“That’s right. Captain Grove, isn’t it?”

With a dry glance Tyreen handed over a requisition form with General Jaynshill’s bold signature.

The Captain flapped the paper up and down and glanced at Tyreen with no show of friendliness. “Okay,” he said.

“Have you started to shave yet, Captain?”

“What?”

“They promote you people pretty fast in the Air Force, don’t they?”

The young Captain let it slide off. “You may be in for some trouble, Colonel. I’d figured to give you Peters as pilot. He’s been in the air seven hours today, on nine flight missions, but that’s less than any other pilot around here right now. But that was Peters you saw crack up out there. He may not be badly hurt, but he’s damn sure too shook up to do any more flying today.”

An airman yelled the Captain’s name, and Grove wheeled away with a snap of his trim shoulders. Tyreen pushed out his arm to look at his watch. Just past eleven. Time to call Harris. Captain Grove was listening to the telephone, trying to light a cigarette one-handed; his hand trembled with the matchbook. Circles of fatigue underscored his eyes. Tyreen took the matchbook and lighted the Captain’s cigarette — a calculated gesture: sometimes little courtesies were enough to blunt the edge of a tired man’s enmity. The young Captain nodded a perfunctory thanks and barked into the telephone:

“Patch it with mud if you have to, for the time being. Let’s get those planes down. We can worry about a pretty paving job when we’ve got time for it.”

He listened to the phone for a moment. Tyreen felt the touch of malarial weakness. The Captain said sarcastically, “You do have shovels down there, don’t you, Lieutenant? Then God damn it, quit jaw-assing over this telephone and get your balls in gear.”

He dropped the receiver into place and swung his head around, balefully searching for an ashtray.

The phone rang again. Grove let his ashes drop by his toes and grabbed the instrument. “What is it?” His eyes widened, and he handed the phone to Tyreen.

It was Harris. “Captain Saville just reported in. He’s over at Tan Son Nhut in a hangar. Left his phone number for you to call.”

“All right,” Tyreen said. “Give me the number.”

Captain Grove was across the room, shading his eyes with his face close to the observation window. Tyreen hung up and went to him. “Sorry to trouble you, Captain.”

“Never mind,” Grove said.

“I’ll need the use of a scrambler phone.”

“In the ops office,” the Captain said. He waved toward a door in the back of the room; he was already on his way to the radio operator, his voice preceding him: “Have you got those three 102s on beam yet?”

Tyreen walked past a row of radar screens, each with an airman intent on its nebulous patterns of light. Voices called across the tower, and Tyreen walked through into the cramped ops office.

A man lay asleep on a folding cot in one corner — the traffic control officer, asleep in his uniform, looking deep in coma. Tyreen closed the door and went to the desk.

He spoke a number into the phone and said, “Scramble this, please.” An operator’s voice answered, and in a few moments he heard the line ring. He glanced at his watch: 2312. When the phone clicked he said immediately, “Theodore?”

“Right, sir. Are we scrambled?”

“I hope so,” Tyreen said. “Go ahead.”

“Corporal Smith reported in by radio. Eddie Kreizler’s being held for interrogation in the Chutrang barracks.”

“Yeah,” Tyreen said, expecting it.

“His exec’s a peckerhead lieutenant by the name of Chinh. They captured him too. I figure the Reds won’t work them both over at once. They’ll interrogate Chinh first because they’ll figure it’s easier to break him down.”

“It won’t take too long for them to find out the Vietnamese doesn’t know half as much as Eddie knows about our operations up there. If Chinh starts to talk, that’s the first thing he’ll tell them. It’ll be the quickest way he can get them off his back.”

“That’s assuming he’ll break.”

Tyreen said, “Everybody’s got a limit. He’ll break, if they get the idea that it’s worth the effort to break him down. And since they picked him up with Eddie, it won’t take them long to reach that conclusion. Still, it may give us a few hours’ break. Maybe we can get to Eddie before they crack him open.”

“Maybe,” Saville said, without warmth. “I told Corporal Smith to get down to the coast below Lak Chau and wait for a HALO-SCUBA drop offshore. I gave him the coordinates. He’ll just have time to make it if we figure to parachute in before dawn. I’ve got a couple of pilots and three enlisted men down here with me. We’re just about ready to take off. What about Major Parnell?”

“He’s at Nha Trang.”

“Oh, Christ. Does he know about this?”

“Not yet,” Tyreen said. “I’m flying up there by jet. You pile your boys in the gooney bird and fly up there. You can top up the tanks at Nha Trang while I’m talking to Parnell. With any luck I can get him out to you in time to fly north and make the drop before daylight.”

“My pilot’s worried about that typhoon, David. It’s scheduled to hit the coast about eight-thirty or nine.”

“He should be back before that. He can land at Da Nang before the storm comes in.”

“Maybe. You know McKuen — cocky as hell, but underneath he worries a lot.”

“Keep a lid on him, Theodore. Any other chatter from Corporal Smith up there?”

“No. He had to keep his broadcast down to two minutes on account of the time span of the Hanoi broadcast they were using for cover. The Reds have got pretty good radio detection gear up there.”

“I know,” Tyreen said. “All right. Take off, Theodore. I’ll see you at Nha Trang in an hour or two.”

He held down the phone sprocket for a moment, looking into space. Then he got the General on the wire.

“Some news on Eddie Kreizler,” he said.

“Spill it,” said the General.

“The Reds have got him in jail in Chutrang. They picked up his Number One with him. The exec’s a Vietnamese. Maybe they’ll concentrate on him long enough for us to get up there and have a crack at getting Eddie out.”

“I hope so,” General Jaynshill said. “If you can’t, David, remember my orders. Spell it out to Major Parnell. I can’t afford any misfires on this.”

“Keep your receiver channels open on the half-hour,” Tyreen said. “If Parnell gets Eddie out of jail, he’ll want to know how you figure to pick him up. I’ll tell Parnell to broadcast on the blue frequency.”

“Right. Good hunting, David.”

Tyreen put down the phone and glanced at the unconscious Air Force officer on the cot. A rash of sweat covered Tyreen’s face. He tugged a matted handkerchief from his pocket and wiped himself. Feeling weak, he left the office.

Captain Grove sat hipshot on a desk corner sipping coffee; his eyes were shuttered and dark. He stood up when Tyreen entered the big room, and nodded curtly. “You’ve got your pilot, Colonel. Never mind where I found him.”

Tyreen nodded. A sudden grin flashed across Grove’s boyish face. “Just remember one thing, Colonel — the Air Force is on your side.”

Tyreen looked at him. “I guess we all tend to forget that now and then.”

“Your plane’s warming up now. The corporal on the door will take you down there.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Grove waved a hand and turned away, charging determinedly toward the bank of radar screens; his voice lifted and smashed across the room: “Where in hell is that flight of peckerhead Sabres?”

Tyreen gathered his hat and coat on the way out. It was still raining.

McKuen was not used to flying a DC-3 without radio contact with the ground, at night, with rainclouds socking the coast in. He scowled at the silent radio dial. His instructions were to keep radio silence and stay as far from main-traveled air corridors as he could. It was typical Army work, the brass not letting the left hand know what the right was doing — he was spotted by coastal radar five minutes after takeoff and tailed for ten minutes across the sky by a pair of Skyraiders. They had looked him over carefully, buzzed him to indicate he was out of ordinary, flight patterns, and finally returned to base, after which Captain Saville had come forward to the cockpit and told him to fly a zigzag course. McKuen had said, “And who is it we’re trying to fool, my good Captain?”

The old gooney bird had no numbers or insignia on its battered shell. He was under explicit instructions to keep no log, which was well enough because the automatic gyropilot was in poor working order, and he and Shannon together had their hands full navigating and flying through the soup. The thought of bucking the old plane all the way to the Chinese border put a sour tilt on his customarily jaunty lips.

Four passengers rode in the fuselage — Saville and three sergeants, two of them Vietnamese. Half the remaining space was littered with equipment, packed into parachute harnesses — Russian rifles and AK submachine guns, Czech grenades, East German radios, American drugs repacked in Chinese-made containers — all of it captured from the enemy over a period of years. Just like this plane, McKuen thought. Probably none of it worked right. He looked at Shannon. Shannon’s young imperturbable face was half-lighted by the worn-out panel illuminators. McKuen said, “Chewing gum, rubber bands, and paperclips. That’s all we’ve got to hold this crate together with. If this old gooney lasts another six hours in the air, I’ll kiss its tail.”

Shannon didn’t answer. He was shooting the stars. When he got through he said, “Hell of a crosswind through here. What time’s that typhoon supposed to hit?” He put the sextant down and made notes on his knee-clip pad. “Time to go down,” he said. “Nha Trang’s under that goop somewhere. I hope the ceiling hasn’t dropped.”

“If it dropped much, me boy, it’d be underground.”

McKuen pushed the wheel forward and grinned. “I hope nobody put a chimney in that cloud.” They roared down into the gray layer.

Shannon said, “Easy, Lieutenant. I don’t trust that altimeter.”

“It’s only off by one or two hundred feet,” McKuen said. As he spoke the last word, the nose broke through the clouds and through the splash of rain he saw dim reflections on the crests of ocean waves. The sea was not more than two hundred feet below them; the altimeter needle was just wavering downward past the 1,000-foot mark. As McKuen leveled off, the needle swayed down to ground-level and bounced back up to two hundred, where it settled.

“Pretty good altimeter,” McKuen said, “long as you be giving it plenty of time to make up its bloody mind.”

“I just took a bath. Don’t need another one.”

“Mister Shannon.”

“Sir?”

“Who’s after navigatin’ this aircraft?”

“Oh,” said Shannon. “Sorry. Nha Trang ought to be over to port somewhere.”

“I can see that all for myself,” McKuen said, banking slowly toward the lights of the landing field. “Give me wind speed and direction.”

Saville popped his head into the cockpit. “You can break radio silence,” he said.

“Thank ye,” McKuen said drily. He reached for the headset.

Saville went back into the plane. Shannon squirmed in the right-hand seat. “Wind’s coming off the ocean, Lieutenant. Pretty stiff — about twenty miles.”

“About, Mister?”

Shannon flushed. “Lieutenant, we’re lucky to get any reading at all with these gauges.”

McKuen ran craggy fingers through his red hair. He spoke into the radio: “Hey, Tower. This is Yankee Six Four.”

“Reading you, Yankee Six Four. That you, Irish?”

“Give me the wind, Tower.”

“East twenty-three miles. Ninety degrees exactly.”

The wind was off the sea, which meant he should come in from the west, but the buildings and trees were there, and the hills, and the sluggish old plane would not drop fast enough after going over the top of the tower. And so he had to come up the beach from the south and make a sharp turn onto the landing strip. The landing gear was slow, and the controls, bucking the twenty-three-mile crosswind, reminded him of flying a reconverted Liberator — than which there was no more difficult truck of the air. The slant of the rain and his own drift confirmed the tower’s report on the wind. He said, “The strip will be slick as oil. I hope these bald tires hold on it.”

Number two engine, on the right, was clogged with oil or water or rust or something and not running up to par. From the rattles coming out of the fuselage he knew it was long past time to go around replacing rivets and tightening bolts, and he said in a thin voice, “It’ll be ever so nice if the wings stay on tight.”

Shannon tipped his head into the center space to yell back at the passengers, “Brace in, back there.”

McKuen said brightly, “Anybody got a little white paper bag?” And then he hit the field, not very neatly, on one wheel and then the other, because he was aileron-against-the-wind, and on the runway the plane heaved into a brief side-skid before the tail touched ground. He turned rudder and wheels into the skid and applied brakes gently, and just managed to avoid stopping the airplane against a weatherbeaten hangar, though his wingtip missed it by only a few yards. When he cut the ignition off both engines, he sat and ground his jaws for a moment. “Much as I dearly love Mr. Douglas’s finest airplane, I can think of types I would rather fly at such a time as this. I’ll thank ye for your gratitude, Mister.”

“What?”

“You are alive,” McKuen told him, “and on the ground. I believe you owe me a drink for that.”

“Lieutenant,” Shannon said, “I’ll buy you a Goddamn case of Irish whisky if I ever get the chance again.”

Saville came forward. “How’s it fly, George?”

“It won’t be needing much,” McKuen told him. “Maybe new wings and engines, maybe new controls and fuselage.”

“It’ll do,” said Theodore Saville. “Top up the tanks and make whatever maintenance repairs you can.”

“How long have I got?”

“Maybe half an hour, maybe an hour.”

“Captain, it’ll take a month.”

“Then you’d better get busy,” Saville said. “As soon as Major Parnell gets here, we’re taking off.”

Major Parnell’s dream was filled with pit-traps in the jungle, bottomed with upthrust poisoned pungi stakes of bamboo. He rolled over on the sweat-damp sheets, half-awake, reliving moments of fear. The sizzle of bullets cutting through undergrowth, the smell of rotting infected feet, the dull completeness of pain. He was vaguely aware of a steady traffic of jet-powered rescue helicopters chugging back and forth over the hospital. He turned onto his side and drowsily picked at a blood scab on his throat, possibly an infected insect bite.

Between flights of HUEYs he heard the slap-slap of the surf beyond the fine screens, the patter of rain on the wooden roof, the splash of water rushing through gutters and downspouts into puddles in the sand. The warm air was close and sticky. He moved again, uncomfortable on the limp sheets. Somewhere in the building a patient cried out; the cry offended Parnell’s solitude, and he tried to put it out of his mind. He fixed in memory the image of a woman, his wife, dancing with him, balancing her highball glass on his shoulder and smiling into his eyes. He recalled the way she had of tossing her head.

The reverie passed. Parnell slipped deeper into sleep. He suffered dreams of scorpions and cobras, strangling jungle vines and spiraling hordes of insects.

“Major?”

He opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just after midnight.” The nurse switched on the lamp. She was overweight and horse-faced; she looked, he thought, like an elephant’s caboose. She bent over him to put a thermometer in his mouth. Parnell reached for the lamp chain, but the nurse intercepted his hand. “Leave it on, Major. You’ve got a visitor.”

He mumbled around the glass stick, “Visitors? It’s the middle of the night.”

“He’ll be here directly. He’s down with the hospital commandant now. If he could get the commandant out of bed, he can get you out of bed.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. Some colonel.” She straightened the sheets at the foot of the bed: he had kicked them loose.

“Am I getting out of here?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to?”

“Depends,” said Major Parnell. He took the thermometer from his mouth and turned it around in an attempt to bring the red line into view. The nurse came around the bed and made a grab for it. Parnell held it away from her and said, “I’ve got a right to know if I’m dead yet.”

“Ninety-nine point four,” she said without hesitation. He handed her the thermometer. She said, “It seems to be your normal temperature. You’ve carried it for the past six days.” She grinned; her teeth were uneven. “You’re a hot-blooded one, Major.”

Parnell rubbed his eyes. The nurse said, “I warn you, Major, I’m a very jealous woman.” She gave him an arch look and said, “Always leave ’em laughing,” and went.

Parnell slid his legs off the bed, clawed his swollen feet into his slippers, and reached for his underwear. He was a small, wiry man, dark-skinned and crag-faced, pitted by the jungle. His hands were as gnarled as an old peon’s.

A HUEY fluttered overhead. When he looked out through the rain, he could see its exhaust flame reflected fragmentarily on crests of surf.

The weak lamp made his hands appear jaundiced. He did not feel particularly ill. He climbed into his drawers, found his uniform, put it on, and zipped up his trousers. He winced when he hiked his foot up to tie his shoe. A piston plane droned overhead. Parnell rammed his shirttail down into his trousers. Inside the orthopedic shoes his crippled feet felt crushed. His side was stiff with a healing wound.

No one seemed to be around. He lay back on the bed and smoked a cigarette down to a stub. He studied the shine on his shoes and listened to the copters overhead and scratched the scab on his throat. It was just like the Army to wake a man up in the middle of the night and then leave him nothing to do but lie waiting. He made a vague inventory of his ills. The Army had given him precious little besides a poisoned-arrow wound and several diseases.

A gaunt officer in a raincoat came by, obviously looking for the right room. He was almost past Parnell’s open doorway when he saw Parnell, stopped, and turned in. “Here you are.”

“Hello, Colonel,” Parnell said. If he was surprised to see Tyreen he did not show it.

Tyreen’s face creased into a long-jawed frown. His raincoat was dripping on the floor. He slipped it off and hung it over the back of a chair. His uniform was rumpled, as if he had sat in a cramped space for some time. He said, “How do you feel?”

“I’m still eating and sleeping.”

“The medical report says you’re just about ready to go.”

“Does it,” Parnell said without much interest.

Tyreen sat down on the chair like a cowboy, straddling it and folding his arms across the top of the chairback. He tipped his hat back. “I need you for a job, Major.”

Parnell had a sardonic expression that lay on his face like a permanent crease. “Last time I let you talk me into something, Colonel, I got foot rot and a Montagnard arrow in my middle.”

“This one’s important.”

“They’re all important,” Parnell said. “Let me tell you something. You get out there in the boondocks with plenty of bugs and enemies and rain, and pretty soon you start changing your ideas about what’s important. You stay alive. That’s all you think about — staying alive.” He spat. “For what?”

Tyreen’s face was tight. Wound up, Parnell sat bolt upright on the bed and said, “Tell me just what the hell we’re doing here, Colonel. What happens when northern agitators come to the south and disturb the peaceful status quo? Well, we’ve got one answer for Vietnam and another answer for Mississippi. You tell me which one’s important, okay?”

Tyreen said, “Eddie Kreizler’s in a Red prison in North Vietnam, Major. Somebody’s got to get his ass up there and get Kreizler out. Tonight. I haven’t got time to argue politics with you.”

Parnell said very distinctly, “Eddie Kreizler took the same chances I took. I was lucky enough to get back alive. I’m not going out again, Colonel. And you can’t force it on me.”

Tyreen stood up, pitching the chair away from him in anger. His raincoat fell to the floor. “Just who in hell do you think you are, Major?”

“I think I’m a man who’s had enough. I’m sick of this grubby little war. Okay — so you’re not bleeding for me. I didn’t ask for sympathy. I just want to be left alone. To hell with you, Colonel, and to hell with Eddie Kreizler. I’ll drop in on his wife when I get back home and pay my respects. But I’ve had enough of this war. More than enough.”

“There’s a bridge up there. A railroad bridge. Your specialty, Major.”

“I’ll drink to it,” Parnell said.

“You’re refusing to volunteer?”

“Yes. I am refusing to volunteer. You can put that in my record. By God, Colonel, you can put that down!”

Tyreen stooped to pick up his coat. He smoothed it out. “I’ll tell the General you’re too sick to do the job.”

“I don’t need any favors.”

“It’s not a favor,” said Tyreen. “You are sick, Major.” He went to the door. Parnell’s voice halted him:

“Jesus, Colonel. You like this Goddamn war, don’t you?”

“It’s the only war I’ve got,” said David Tyreen, and he went out. Parnell lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. After a moment he began to untie his shoes. His feet hurt.

It was near two o’clock in the morning. The hangar was big and empty: a few workbenches, a broken-down lathe, a wall hung with repair tools, a stack of assorted hoses, drums of metal parts and oil, grease on the floor. George McKuen sat on the corner of a sawdusty bench, one leg hanging free and swinging slowly, the other foot touching the floor, a cigarette held idly between two fingers. Warrant Officer Shannon sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up and his hands clasped around it. Sergeant Nguyen Khang crouched on his haunches. Sergeant J. D. Hooker stood stiffly near the hangar door. Sergeant Nhu Van Sun was behind McKuen, curiously toying with a sophisticated electric wrench. Sergeant Sun was large for a Vietnamese, perhaps five foot eight, a few inches taller than Khang, and two dozen pounds heavier.

All of them looked at the newcomer.

Tyreen said, “I’m Colonel Tyreen. I’ll be running this show. Captain Saville explained to you what we’re after. You’ve had the opportunity to back off, and you’re still here, so I’m assuming you’ve all volunteered. It’s too late to quit now.”

McKuen gave him a restless grin.

Shannon showed no expression whatever; his lean young face was lowered, and he was considering the progress of an ant crossing the floor in front of his feet.

J. D. Hooker stared at Tyreen with instinctive dislike across the gulf separating every officer from every career enlisted man_:

Sergeant Sun looked troubled. He fiddled with the tool in his fists.

Sergeant Khang smiled faintly; he seemed to find something secretly amusing.

Theodore Saville entered the hangar dripping. He nodded his big round face and took a post near Hooker at the door. Hooker had turned his head to stare at the two Vietnamese sergeants. He looked back at Tyreen as if he were about to speak, but his lips never moved, and presently he looked away.

McKuen, redheaded and rawboned, showed Tyreen a friendly grin and snapped a wooden match alight with his thumbnail to light his enormous cigar.

Tyreen said, “You’ll have to remember one thing. The United States will repudiate us if we’re caught up there. You understand that, all of you? If we get caught, we’re all civilians. They’ll execute us for spying, anyway, but don’t even give them your rank and serial number.”

No one spoke until Lieutenant McKuen got to his feet with one eye squinted against the smoke of his black cigar. “One thing before we start, Colonel.”

“Right.”

“About that airplane. Could you be givin’ us a few hours to patch it up? It’s in bad shape. Terrible bad.”

“No time. You’ll be flying south into Da Nang with that typhoon right on your tail, Lieutenant. Anyhow, I doubt you’d find any usable parts around here.”

McKuen said morosely, “I wonder if she’s insured. I looked at the bloody number plate — I’d like you all to know this crate was manufactured in nineteen thirty-seven. It’s two years older than I am. Colonel, this bloody aeroplane’s an antique.”

“That’s all right, Lieutenant,” Tyreen said mildly. “So am I.” He swept the others with a glance. “About oh-five-thirty hours we’ll be making a HALO-SCUBA jump into the Gulf of Tonkin just below Lak Chau. Corporal Luther Smith will be there to guide us inland. If he doesn’t show up, it’s your job, Sergeant Khang. We’ve got two jobs. First priority is an American captain being held for interrogation in Chutrang. After we get him and his exec out, we’ll have a try at the railroad bridge on the Sang Chu.”

McKuen arched an eyebrow and said, “Assignment for you, Mister Shannon. Capture Hanoi for us to keep them busy, while we search the rest of North Vietnam for the missing captain.”

“Okay,” said Shannon, “but you’ll have to wait till after I take a crap.”

McKuen said to Tyreen, “What’s the jump altitude going to be, Colonel?”

“Twelve hundred feet.”

McKuen pursed his lips. “If we overshoot the reefs they’ll be able to pick you up with a blotter.”

“We’ll just have to hope there’s enough weather turbulence to confuse their coastal radar.”

“Maybe they won’t pick up the chutes on radar,” McKuen said, “but they’ll sure as hell pick out the plane clear as day.”

“That’s why it’s unmarked,” Tyreen told him.

McKuen said, “There’s somebody I want to see in Honolulu right away.”

“Who?” asked Mister Shannon.

“Me,” McKuen replied.

Tyreen said, “Captain Saville has your chart coordinates for the drop zone. Get your engines warmed up, Lieutenant.” He nodded at McKuen. “I’m sorry we can’t do better for a ship. The old bird will have to do — and we’ll just have to hope the engines don’t fall off. Any other questions?”

Sergeant Hooker drew his heels together. “What about the Red security system up there, sir?”

“Tight. Plenty of patrols. There’s a ten o’clock curfew, and they’re likely to shoot anything that moves after curfew.”

“I’m due back in the States in two weeks,” said Hooker. “I’m real short, Colonel. What’s our chances — on the level?”

“Maybe one in ten,” Tyreen said, and held Hooker’s angry eyes.

McKuen was on his way out of the hangar. Tyreen said, “I haven’t got time to fool with toughs and heroes on this job. Given a choice we’ll run, not fight. Avoid a firefight whenever possible.”

It was all he had to say. He surveyed them bleakly. At the door, George McKuen grinned. “Anybody got a stick of gum? I may find a place for it.” He went out. Tyreen looked around slowly. Big Saville, cleaning his inky fingernails with a stubby pocketknife. Shannon frowning and J. D. Hooker frowning, each in his way — Shannon young, puzzled, trying to be as cocky as McKuen; Hooker tough, tougher than a man should have to be, with a streak of viciousness across his broad, rubbery face. Young Sergeant Sun rubbed the knuckles of his fist into his palm. He was a heavy-shouldered shadow under the hangar wall, his face half-invisible but for the shine of his little button eyes. Sergeant Khang watched Tyreen with almost a leer, somehow furtively amused.

Sour lines pulled at Tyreen’s mouth. He turned and spoke privately to Theodore Saville:

“McKuen will take a few minutes to go through his checklist. Let’s go over this.”

“How much have you got mapped out?”

“Depends on how far we get before we run into snags,” Tyreen said. “How about our gear?”

“Enough to weigh down a platoon. Weapons, food, radio stuff — the usual warehouse full of crap. I hope these kids have got strong backs. Parachutes and underwater breathing gear. I blackmailed half a dozen miniature high-pressure oxygen tanks out of a Navy supply officer. That cuts down on weight, but not a hell of a lot. But the tanks are only good for about fifteen minutes.”

“It’ll have to be enough,” Tyreen said. “After takeoff, check the men out with the scuba gear.”

Saville grunted affirmatively. “And one other item.”

“Demolitions.”

“At least you don’t act senile yet,” Saville said amiably. He began to look pleased, like a child when he has mastered a problem in arithmetic. “What can you get that’s small enough for one man to carry, but powerful enough to blow up a big steel bridge?”

“Riddle me no riddles, Theodore.”

“Got it from the Air Force,” Saville said in a satisfied voice. “Same as they put in the warhead of the Redeye missile. I forget what you call it, but a cupful will make charcoal out of a medium bomber.”

“Can Hooker handle it?”

“Hooker can handle anything that goes bang.”

Tyreen looked across the hangar. Hooker was watching patiently, but Hooker’s eyes were never in accord with the expressions of his lips.

Saville said, “You’d better fill in the lurid details, David.”

Tyreen prowled to the door and back again. “I guess we’ve got time.”

“Every silver lining has its cloud.”

A faint palsy touched Tyreen. He covered it with a lazy smile. “All right, let’s rough it out. They’ll be trying to grind up Eddie Kreizler, and we want to get to him as fast as we can.”

“Okay,” Saville said. “But you be the candle, David. You light the way.”

“We’re practically playing without any cards,” Tyreen said. “But it looks like this. We jump into the bay before dawn. Corporal Smith meets us on the beach and we head inland. If we’re lucky, we can steal a jeep or a truck. Otherwise we walk across the mountains, six or seven hours if we’re not held up. I wish we could parachute in closer, but the country’s too rugged for a night drop. There’s a—”

“David, you’re not exactly fit for a hike like that. Maybe—”

Tyreen went right on: “There’s a Montagnard camp above Chutrang — friendlies; Kreizler was working with them. They’ll have to help us get into the city without making waves. There’s a fuel storage depot above town, and I think we’ll send Hooker up there to blow up the big tanks. The racket ought to make people dizzy. Anyhow, we’ll need some sort of diversion like that, to get them off balance.”

“How do we get into the compound where they’ve got Eddie?”

“There are no easy ways.”

“What else is new?”

“If we can steal a couple of North Vietnamese uniforms to fit Sun and Khang, they can act like a pair of Vietminh who captured us. They’re bringing us in — that gets us into the army post. When we get that far, we’ll have to improvise — it will depend on where Eddie’s locked up and what the guard arrangements are.”

“An awful lot of playing by ear,” Saville said. “But suppose it works. Don’t leave me in a minor key, David — I don’t want to get stuck with this operation without a road map if you get picked off.” He spoke in a practical voice. “If I euchre us into the wrong spot, they’ll start playing marbles with our eyeballs. Point me in the right direction.”

“You don’t need a weather vane,” Tyreen said. “Give yourself a little more credit, Theodore.”

Saville stood backed against the wall, hands in the front pockets of his fatigue trousers. “I guess I know my limitations as well as you do.”

Tyreen shrugged. “Certain things you just can’t plan. If we get out of Chutrang with Eddie, we plant a false trail of some kind to throw them off, and we get up the Sang Chu to the bridge as fast as we can. I haven’t seen the place, and there aren’t any worthwhile photographs of it. It’s heavily guarded, but it’s got to have some vulnerable point. We make it up as we go along. It’s the only thing we can do.”

“Is that a royal ‘we’ or an editorial ‘we’?”

Tyreen passed a hand over his face. “Theodore, if you can’t ride the horse you’re on, you get off and walk. What more can I tell you? If they could blueprint this kind of operation, they wouldn’t need people like us.” His chiseled face was dismal.

The senile gooney bird cleared the phone wires by a narrow airspace and banked around toward the northeast, scrambling upward through rain until it broke out above the clouds over the South China Sea. They crossed the 13th parallel and set a course north-northwest, cruising at seven thousand feet under a sky partially clouded and partially dotted with stars. “Cirrus,” McKuen said. “I don’t see any sign of that typhoon. Maybe it’ll beat us back here.”

“And maybe not,” said Shannon. “Why worry about it?”

“Mister, I think you may be too casual sometimes.”

“Coming from you, I take that kindly. But there’s nothing casual about this job.”

McKuen said, “It would be nice if the autopilot worked. Where d’you suppose the gooks dredged up this heap of junk?”

“Well,” Shannon observed sagely, “it flies.”

“Like a bloody cow.” McKuen put his attention on the glowing circles on the dash and above the windshields.

“I don’t believe you trust this airplane,” said Shannon.

“Don’t you, now.”

“You can always bail out.”

McKuen glanced at him. “Tickle me — I hate to be rude.”

Shannon darkened. “Hell, Lieutenant — it’s all fine and all to make jokes. But I’m scared green. What if we get knocked down over North Vietnam or drop right into some Victor Charlie camp? Do you speak Vietnamese?”

“Sure.”

“That makes me feel all warm inside,” Shannon said miserably. “I don’t speak a word of it. Only been here three weeks.” He reached forward to correct the mixture on number one. He said, “Hell of a vibration in number two.”

“A loose mount. I did me best to tighten it down with baling wire.” McKuen made a grimace. “Baling wire.” Then, abruptly, he laughed quietly.

McKuen tried to take a bearing with the radio direction finder, but the reading was untrustworthy. Silence filled the cabin, in spite of engine drone and the rush of wind past the blunt nose of the plane: silence filled with faintly luminous cloud surfaces in the night and scattered star points on the sky. It came, the silence, of the profound aloneness known to men who sat in a gently vibrating cockpit with a thin column of air suspending them thousands of feet above the invisible black sea. They had the glow of stars, glow of clouds, and yellow glow of wide-eyed instruments. The slow movement of needles across dials, the hum of radio beacons coming in through the headset; the phosphorescence of a dim moon vague behind a high, thin cloud, the steady grip of a pale hand, the jut of the round-faced compass bisecting the windshield at nose-level, the soporific motionlessness of the airplane, tongues of exhaust flame shooting back from the engines and, far off on a mountaintop in the central highlands, the glow of a warning beacon tiny like a fallen cigarette ash.

McKuen’s face was pale in the light from the instruments, the angles of his features drawn sharp — long, straight nose and long, straight forehead, brush of red hair and the long line of the jawbone unmarred by flesh folds, deep creases running from nostril to lip corners: a young man with drive and a great many violent tempers.

McKuen said, “I’ve flown some bloody silly missions, but this one takes the prize. No regrets, maybe, but I think I’m getting a little old.”

“At twenty-six?”

“Sure. I’m getting settling-down urges. I don’t know. A year ago I wouldn’t have hesitated. This time I had to think about it — I had to let Saville push me into it. It’s no good to get cautious in this game, Mister.”

Shannon said nothing. He dropped the controls to a slightly lower pitch, and McKuen watched the airspeed indicator climb a notch or two. “I was flying a bunch of Pentagon pencil pushers to Bengasi. We got forced down. That Godawful Libyan desert. At least this time, whatever happens, we won’t have to land on sand. Well, sometime we’ll all die anyway. To be sure.”

Forty minutes beyond Da Nang, and within easy radar range of the Red Chinese air base at Sama on the island of Hainan, the gooney bird’s number two engine sputtered, coughed, spat blood, and finally caught again. It kept running. McKuen kept one eye on it. A jaunty, cavalier, cocked-eyebrow d’Artagnan, he grinned at Mister Shannon and said, “Flying is so dangerous around here, even the bloody pigeons travel on foot.”

“A guy could get killed,” Shannon complained, “which is no way to die. I thought I was going to puke when that number two cut out on us.”

The engines chugged reassuringly. They had lost eight hundred feet of altitude, nursing the sick number two; now McKuen climbed again and leveled off at seven thousand feet to cruise. “Look there — break in the clouds.”

Shannon looked down. “Ship down there,” he said, “or a big boat. See the lights?”

“That’ll be one of those Russian trawlers. They must catch a lot of fish. I flew over one of them just out at the three-mile limit at Guam. Plenty of radar domes on them, but not a stick of fishing tackle.”

They passed over the opening in the clouds underneath. Shannon spoke slowly: “What do you think of our chances, Lieutenant?”

“I came, didn’t I?”

Shannon’s face moved. He looked out at the night. “I’m cold,” he said. “I wish the heat worked. I don’t think we’ve got the chance of a chicken in a fox’s den of getting this thing back to Da Nang, typhoon or no typhoon. That number two engine’s going to pack up damn soon.”

“It’s human to sweat a little,” McKuen said cheerfully.

“What about you, Lieutenant? Do you sweat?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t show it.”

McKuen said, “There ain’t much that can harm you after you’re dead, darlin’.” The plane slid between layers of wispcloud, cutting off the star shine. The plane became a raft isolated on a black sea. There was the smell of rain, but no water on the glass. McKuen’s face was reflected faintly in the window. Another break in the lower cloud deck showed nothing but darkness; the clouds sealed up once again. Shannon’s hand moved to rotate the stabilizer wheel back a fraction of a revolution. Before McKuen’s feet the rudder pedals moved slightly, one in and one out, under Shannon’s direction. Engines throbbed monotonously. Shannon said, “I’m getting spooky.”

“You’ll steady down.”

“Maybe.”

“Look at it this way,” said McKuen. “If you get killed, at least you won’t have died of anything serious.”

“You are very funny, Lieutenant.”

McKuen looked sharply at him. After that he said nothing until, with the clouds pinching in on them from above and below, he said, “Switch on the receiver. I want to get a weather report.”

The earphones crackled and he heard a distant voice: “Tighten up this formation. Jimmy, I want your wingtip in my Goddamn window.”

McKuen said, “Wrong band, Mister,” in a very gentle voice and watched Shannon’s nervous hand twist the radio dials. After a moment he looked at his watch and said, “Ought to be a report about now.”

The radio only blatted landing and takeoff instructions. He listened to it with half his attention and muttered aloud: “Manifold pressure.” He moved the throttles. “Twenty-two hundred rpm — how’s that number two behaving?”

He was remembering a blonde in San Francisco who had left his quarters at 5 a.m., thereby earning for him the silly admiration of his acquaintances. Shannon’s voice broke in:

“I’m as jumpy as a virgin in a men’s room.”

When McKuen made no reply, Shannon said, “I was thinking about getting married before I left the States. Now I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“And leave my girl a widow?”

“At least she’d have a pension,” McKuen said.

“Do you think women go for Army pilots?”

“Well, now,” McKuen said, with his brogue waxing, “I was after takin’ a survey of seventy-five young ladies on that very question, would you believe it? And seventy-three of them responded the same way. Would you be wantin’ to know what it was they said? They said, ‘Shut up and rape me, darlin’,’ is what they said.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Gee, I wish I’d said that. Hold on.” McKuen’s hand snapped to the radio dial, and he tuned it with slow care. The headset scratched in his ear:

“Typhoon Carlotta has changed course and speed, is now expected to hit the Vietnamese coastline north of Da Nang at approximately oh-six-thirty hours this morning. Repeat, the typhoon is expected to strike the coast near Hué at approximately oh-six-thirty hours this morning. All operational aircraft are ordered to ground at runways of opportunity. All takeoffs after oh-five-thirty hours are canceled by order of...”

McKuen took the headset off and slung it on its hook. He looked at Shannon and said, “What ho.”

Shannon’s face was dour. McKuen said, “What’s your opinion, Mister?”

“I don’t get paid for opinions, Lieutenant. Just follow orders. But if I was to think about it, I might suggest hara-kiri.”

“Very good, Mister. Take the wheel, like a good fellow.” McKuen unstrapped himself, climbed out of the pilot’s seat, and made his way back into the passenger cabin.

Tyreen’s tongue played with one of his back teeth. It was a false tooth, hollowed out. The Army had inserted a cyanide pill inside it. It was no hard task to work the tooth loose with the tongue and swallow the poison. It could be done without once opening the mouth. A man had been known to kill himself with the cyanide pill in his sleep.

He had sheet metal in the soles of his jump boots and a load of equipment on his back that would stagger a mule: he had his submachine gun, his tools, his rations, his ammunition, and the tank of an underwater breathing apparatus. His parachute hung down below the seat of his pants. Canteen and pistol and bayonet rattled against his thighs, hung on his ammunition belt. He glanced at Saville, who carried all the same equipment, plus a sackful of radio gear, and at J. D. Hooker, who carried a wickedly heavy sack of explosives and demolition equipment, and at Sergeant Sun, who carried a Czech light machine gun with a bipod mount, and at Nguyen Khang, who carried the boxed ammunition belts for the machine gun.

Theodore Saville picked up a knapsack full of Communist-made grenades and hooked it to the front of his harness above his chest chute. He drained the last of the coffee into his mouth and tossed the jug aside. He took a last pull on his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. Carrying two hundred pounds of metal and fabric, he moved effortlessly.

Tyreen said, “Hook up.” He made his way forward to the cockpit.

McKuen was struggling with the controls. He glanced around briefly. “We’re flying on a wing and a swear, Colonel. Number two engine’s making plenty of trouble. How far is it to that emergency strip in the mountains?”

“About forty miles from the drop zone.”

“I wish I had me four-leaf clover,” said McKuen. “You’ve got about three minutes. Do I keep her on twelve hundred feet?”

“Dead level,” Tyreen said.

“That might be easier if I didn’t have to talk to the altimeter through interpreters. I’ll be givin’ you a red warning light now. The light will flash green when it’s time for you gentlemen to do the Geronimo act. That is, presuming the green light bulb ain’t burned out. I tested it back at Nha Trang, and it worked then. But this aeroplane didn’t come with a written guarantee, you’ll be understandin’.”

“Sing out when you flash the light, just to be sure.”

“Sure and I will. And, Colonel...?”

“What?”

“Good hunting.”

“Thanks, McKuen. I’ll see you back in Saigon.”

“Sure you will.”

“Good luck, Mister Shannon,” Tyreen said.

“And the same to you, Colonel.” Shannon’s face was tight.

McKuen said, “Buck up, me lad. It’ll be something to be tellin’ your grandchildren about.”

“If I live to have any.”

“So long,” Tyreen said, and went back into the plane. He heard McKuen’s voice following him:

“Ciao.”

Tyreen pushed past the others to the jump door in the tail section. The ceiling was low here, and he had to stoop. The red warning light glared at him unblinkingly. “Watch the light,” he said. “And be ready to pull your emergency chutes. We’re pretty close to the water.”

“And pretty close to the reef,” Saville said. “If any of us overshoot by as much as three seconds, he’ll wind up with a hunk of coral up his ass.”

J. D. Hooker said, “Then you better move fast, Captain. You’re comin’ out last.”

“Thanks for the concern, Sergeant.”

“Turn on your oxygen tanks, and watch that light,” Tyreen said.

He stood in the open door with the cold night whipping past. At twelve hundred feet there was a light drizzle of rain. Pellets of water stung his exposed face. It was a long three minutes — was the light working? He braced his hands in the doorway. His trouser legs flapped violently against his calves. One of the sergeants was crowded up close behind him. He broke out in a dizzy wave of chills. The wind stung his eyes, and he could not keep them open long enough to see what was below. A burst of wind almost tore him out the door. He heard a small sound — McKuen bellowing at the top of his lungs from the forward cockpit. The light flickered green. He felt the brief pressure of Saville’s hand on his shoulder. He shouted, “Go!” And thrust himself out into the night.

They pushed inland and made a halt at dawn on the edge of a rice paddy. The rain had suspended, but on the mountains to the west hung a solid bank of black clouds. Theodore Saville spread his map on the ground, and the young blond Corporal, Luther Smith, put his finger on the map. “We’re here.”

Saville moved his hand across the map. “This is Chutrang. Beyond the Sang Chu gorge. Do we go by the bridge on our way?”

“Pretty close to it,” said Corporal Smith. The tone of his voice was as unnatural as the deadness of his eyes and the corpse-hued pallor of his face. “We don’t have to cross the river, though. We stay north of the river all the way. There’s a village of friendly Montagnards got their camp right here, a few miles this side of Chutrang. Captain Kreizler and the rest of us been working pretty close with them. Colonel, it ain’t easy to get through from here to Chutrang. The Vietminh got patrols all over the mountains. If we had a choice, I’d say try it at night, but then you got to worry about booby traps you can’t see at night.”

Tyreen put the muzzle of his submachine gun on the map. “We’re pretty close to this road now, aren’t we?”

“Yes, sir. About half a mile the other side of this paddy.”

“Much traffic along that road?”

“Not much,” said Corporal Smith. “Now and then a patrol. Some rice carts and stuff like that. Once in a while a staff car or a truck.”

Tyreen spoke to Saville: “It’d save a good deal of time if we could hijack a truck. I think it’s worth gambling the time to set up an ambush on the road.”

Corporal Smith said, “May not be nothing come along all day.”

“We’ll give it an hour or so before we head into the hills on foot.” Tyreen turned back to the Corporal; Smith’s eyes flickered when they touched Tyreen’s. Tyreen said, “I want to know exactly what happened up there last night, Corporal. From the top.”

“Ain’t a hell of a lot to tell, Colonel. I ain’t too sure what did happen. We were set to divvy up in two parties, with eight of us climbing up above to make a lot of ruckus and distract the bridge guards while Captain Kreizler and three others slipped under the bridge pylon and set the charges. But we never got near that far. We were still four miles down the road. Four dozen trails through them mountains, and the Vietminh just had to pick that one to lay out an ambush. We walked right into it. They had us in a buzz saw — machine guns on both sides of the road, and one up ahead. Soon as we walked in, they closed up the rear with another machine gun squad.”

Saville said, “How many Reds, Corporal?”

“How do I know? It was getting dark, and they was hid back in the trees. Maybe a platoon. They had at least four seven-six-two machine guns, and they were layin’ into us with a mortar, too. They let us walk all the way in, and then they opened up with everything they had. It was point-blank. We all flattened out on the trail and tried to roll into cover, but they had most of us chewed to pieces before anybody got off the road.”

Tyreen said, “Did you see what happened to Captain Kreizler?”

“I didn’t have a whole lot of time to pay attention. I was seventh man back in the column. I saw Lieutenant Chinh get hit. In the left arm, I think. He was shoving the Captain down out of the line of fire. Rammed right into the Captain with his shoulder to knock the Captain down. Good thing he did, too. Those machine guns were cutting a field of fire about three feet off the ground. Just right to cut you in half, if you’re standing up. I hit the dirt when the first one opened up. Saw Lieutenant Chinh knock the Captain down, and then I was pretty busy finding cover. I don’t know how the hell they missed killing me, and that’s a fact. They started lobbing mortar into the road, and that chewed us up pretty bad.”

Corporal Smith’s voice was a lifeless drone. He added, “I rolled into the trees and tried to find something to shoot at. By the time I cleared my weapon, the shooting had stopped and I couldn’t see anybody, except some of the boys out in the road. I counted eight dead. I couldn’t find the Captain or Lieutenant Chinh, so I figured they must have got to cover the same way I did. There was a couple big holes where the mortar had hit us. I backed away through the brush and hid myself out good in a patch of trees. After a while I heard some talking and laughing and a bunch of troops came by. I kept quiet. Tried to get a look, but it was dark by then. They seemed to be prodding a couple prisoners along, and the only ones from our team that wasn’t dead on the road had to be the Captain and Lieutenant Chinh. I didn’t see their faces, though, so I wasn’t sure. It took me a while to get out of the area. Then I taped the radio call to you and sent it out by balloon so they wouldn’t be able to get a fix on me.”

“When did you find out that Captain Kreizler and the exec had been taken prisoner?” Tyreen said.

“I found that out for sure when I got back to camp. Some of the Montagnards had been down in Chutrang peddling opium when the troops came in. The Yards saw them bring Captain Kreizler and Lieutenant Chinh into the militia compound. Lieutenant Chinh was wounded. The Yards told me Captain Kreizler looked like they’d pushed him around a little, but he wasn’t bleeding or anything. We’ve had people keeping watch ever since. Last I heard, they hadn’t moved either one of them out of the compound. There’s kind of a grubby little jail where they keep prisoners locked up. No windows, just a steel door with a little hole in it, like a slot — they shove bowls of food in through that. It’s right beside the troop barracks. They keep a pretty heavy guard on it around the clock, especially when they’ve got prisoners they figure are worth the trouble.”

Tyreen said, “That’s a battalion headquarters at Chutrang. If they think Kreizler’s important enough, they’ll want to have him removed to higher headquarters tor interrogation.”

Saville said, “Or they’ll send their best torture experts down to question him at Chutrang.”

“We’ll have to find out,” Tyreen said. “But first we’ve got to get there.”

Saville stood up and walked around examining each man’s pack adjustments. Tyreen got up slowly and walked away, and Saville said, “Okay, let’s move out.”

They went single file through the brush, spread in a ragged line. The rain held off, but it was clear that a squall had the mountains roughed up; if McKuen was up there, he would not find the weather any help. The peaks reared up out of sight into the clouds, and it was impossible to miss the shadow-streaks of heavily falling rain over the slopes.

Tyreen moved like a mechanism, bruised in his joints and irritably weak. The exertion of walking less than a mile over flat terrain left him short of breath and profusely sweating. They broke out of the high elephant grass onto the dirt-tan stripe of the road, and Tyreen said, “Sergeant Khang.”

The team milled around, spaced between mudholes in the road. Sergeant Nguyen Khang came up and stared at Tyreen with his slightly bemused expression. J. D. Hooker said, “I can string a wire across the road and plant a Claymore mine, Colonel. Anything comes along, we’ll blow it to pieces.”

“That won’t do us a hell of a lot of good, Sergeant. If we can stop a truck, we’ll want it in one piece. Sergeant Khang, if a truck comes along, you’ll walk out on the road and flag them down. Tell them you’re a noncom from the Third Volunteer Regiment — the one that infiltrated south about a week ago. Tell them you got sick, and the regiment left you behind. Get them talking — try to get everybody out of the truck and arguing it over.”

Khang’s smile was lopsided. “What happens if they decide to shoot first and argue afterwards?”

“Why should they?” Tyreen said.

“Colonel, you don’t know this country too well after all, do you?”

“You just act like a North Vietnamese sergeant who’s lost his outfit. You’ll get along fine. Get rid of your equipment and peel down to your undershirt.”

Khang said, “Okay, Colonel. I’ll do my best to save the Goddamn world for democracy.”

He turned away, and Tyreen watched him lug his gear into the bush. Tyreen felt faint, not altogether present. He wheeled on Saville: “Set up the machine gun to command the road, and post the men.”

Saville turned to J. D. Hooker: “Deploy the men, and get that machine gun set up.”

Tyreen barked at him: “If I’d wanted the sergeant to execute that order, I’d have issued it to him, Captain!”

Saville’s mild glance swiveled around and rested against him. Saville didn’t say anything. He walked over and picked up the machine gun as if it were a light carbine and carried it back into the grass. Tyreen slung his submachine gun over one shoulder and walked angrily off the road. Hooker and Sergeant Sun watched him speculatively. Corporal Smith stood back with his hands locked around his gun, and Saville, coming by, spoke to him: “Post yourself across the road, Corporal, and don’t do any shooting until the Colonel calls for it.”

Out over the sea, the rim of the sun was a red hump on the horizon.

“Begorra,” said George McKuen. Engulfed in cloud, the gooney bird plowed forward. McKuen peered downward with his face touching the glass.

“The needle says six thousand feet, Lieutenant. I can’t see a damned thing. Suppose the mountains—”

“Quit supposing and help me fly this thing.” McKuen put the nose down, and the old craft went into a glide like a safe going down an elevator shaft. The engines started to whine, and Shannon screamed at him:

“What are you doing?”

McKuen leveled off; the altimeter swayed around to five thousand feet and hovered there. “Trying to bust through under these clouds,” McKuen muttered. “There — there. See it? A hole, Shannon.”

He circled into the wind and pushed the elevators down and abruptly they plunged through the undersurface of the clouds.

Cold rain was awash on the windshield. The wipers made brief arcs of visibility. Ten miles to the west loomed the mountains, vague heavy masses in the half-light. “Navigate, Mister,” McKuen said curtly, with none of his brogue.

“Damned hard to tell. Can’t see any landmarks.”

“That’s a town down there, about two o’clock. That help you?”

Shannon pored over his map. “Could be Thot Nuoc. Or maybe this one, Cai Dam. It depends on how far north we drifted on that crosswind while we were up in those clouds. I wish that direction finder worked. Have they got any radio beacons around here? Jesus, Lieutenant.”

McKuen said very mildly, “Make a guess, Mister, and make a good one. Make it soon, now, because if you don’t, we’re going to fly right into one of those mountains, and if I pick the wrong gorge to fly up, we might as well kiss the whole wake goodbye.”

“There’s a pair of twin peaks over there,” Shannon said. He pointed with his arm. “Eleven o’clock. If you want me to make a guess, then I’d put that landing strip on the north side of the far one.”

“If that’s a wrong guess, you’ll get no chance to apologize.”

“Cut it out, Lieutenant. You want me to shit in my pants?”

McKuen made a dry chuckling sound. “At least the bloody wings haven’t iced up. Temp gauge reads thirty-four outside. Three degrees less, and we’d be icing. Shouldn’t we be able to see that runway?”

“I can’t see a damned thing.” Shannon wiped at frost on the inside of the windshield.

A crosswind took the plane. It crabbed in toward the mountain. McKuen hit the ailerons and sideslid to starboard, losing altitude as he did so. The number two engine began to run unevenly. “Two or three cylinders not firing over there,” McKuen said. “Where in hell is that bloody landing strip? Mother of God.”

The plane rattled and struggled to maintain altitude. Rain battered it, and visibility became worse as they flew under a darkening bank of cloud. They were well below the mountaintop; it reared up out of sight into the storm; the slope of the mountain slipped past their left wingtip, black with rocks and foliage. There did not seem to be a single break in the rain forest. Shannon said, “I’m cold. My ears are cold. Do you think we overshot it?”

“I’ll turn around if it don’t turn up pretty quick.”

Ahead of them loomed the serrates of higher mountains. They would have to climb quickly — could the gooney make it? Number two sputtered. “Give us a richer mixture,” said McKuen.

“I hope it’ll—” Shannon began, and then lunged forward in his seat. “That’s it — there it is, Lieutenant. The strip.”

“Where? For God’s sake where?”

“Down there, Lieutenant. See it? Right beyond that ridge.”

The gray top of a sloping ridge slipped beneath the wings, and McKuen saw it then, an uptilted ribbon of dirt and steel sliced into the rain forest, and he said, “Jesus. A cliff droppin’ off at the lower end and a mountain at the upper end. Ducky — ducky.”

“What are you doing? We’re going past it, Lieutenant!”

“Got to circle around and come in from the north. The air up here’s just about thin enough to hold us up if we maintain a hundred and ten miles an hour. How are we supposed to land on that postage stamp at high speed?”

“Lieutenant, are you asking me?”

McKuen looked at Shannon and felt a sudden impulse to pat the young man on the head. “All right,” he said, “just you relax now, Mister. Turn down the cabin lights so I can see out. Flaps.”

“Full?”

“Half. Damn it.” He put the propellers on low pitch to grab as big a bite of air as they could swallow; he swung around in a narrow skidding circle and lined the rattling plane up with the runway and cut his engines back. Number two coughed. “If that engine packs up now,” he said, and did not finish the statement. “Full flaps, now.”

The plane seemed to stop; there was no sensation of movement, only sight of the runway climbing toward them. “Mother of God, do see to it we don’t stall, hey? Cut those lights, Mister. Bloody hell. If I overshoot the near end by as much as a hundred feet, we’re greased.” He nudged the nose down a fraction more. “Gear down, Mister.”

“Gear down.” McKuen heard the sluggish snapping of the wheels locking into place. The runway came up fast against them now. He glimpsed the face of the glistening cliff dropping down away from the near end of the airstrip. “What’s our airspeed?”

“Hundred and five,” Mister Shannon said.

Number two coughed and jangled. A downdraft in the unstable mountain air shoved the right wing down, and McKuen fought to level it. There was nothing now but the lift of his own hard-breathing chest and the rush of wind and the plane, threatening to stall and plunge them into the gleaming cliff face at 105 miles an hour. McKuen lifted his eyes momentarily to the mountain heaving up, high and solid at the far end of the strip — “One way to stop an aeroplane,” he muttered. “Thank the saints they put reversible props on this crate.”

“I hope the wheel brakes hold,” said Shannon.

They roared down upon the brink of the cliff, and McKuen pushed the props to high pitch, purposefully stalling the plane. It would be rough and nose-down, but it was the fastest way to stop. The nose dropped, and for a moment he wondered if he had miscalculated, if the wheels would catch the edge and the plane trip on them and flip over on its back; that instant’s horror froze in his mind, and then the wheels touched ground, very hard, jarring him in his seat. He raced the engines to bring the tail down. The tailskid bounced, and McKuen applied the brakes gently at first, and then when the tail settled down and he was halfway up the tiny uptilted airstrip he reversed the propellers and gave the engines every bit of power he could slam into them. Number two sputtered and would not get up to full power, and the plane began to skew around; he had to reduce the fuel flow to number one. He heard Shannon shouting something in a hysterical voice. The wheels drummed on the perforated-steel mesh of the airstrip, making a scrubbing noise. Thick, dark forest rushed past on both sides. He had his rudder braced hard over to compensate for the weaker pull of number two. And when the plane jolted to its halt he saw the black rim of the forest not twenty feet in front of the nose of the plane.

He broke his grip on the wheel and wiped an unsteady hand across his forehead.

Someone turned the engines off; it must have been Shannon. Shannon said, “That makes it two cases of Irish whisky I’m buying you, Lieutenant. Holy Jesus.”

McKuen sat and trembled. He heard Shannon unsnapping the seat belt and clicking switches off. McKuen turned and put his hand on Shannon’s arm with brief pressure. He took a long swallow. “I feel as limp as a bloody wet Kleenex.”

“A fine job.”

McKuen grinned. “I let the bloody Government take me under its big protecting wing, but that was before I found out what kind of aeroplanes they sweep under it. Remind me to resign when we get home.”

“You mean that?”

McKuen shook his head. “It’s entirely academic, me boy. We’re a far way from home yet.”

Tyreen sneezed. The air was damp, and he felt the touch of chills under his sea-soaked clothing. He moved through the elephant grass, batting it aside furiously. Sergeant Sun was bellied down behind the machine gun. Tyreen came by and stood above him. “All set, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know how to handle that thing, do you?”

“I learn in jump school.”

“Good. Remember not to fire until I start shooting.” Tyreen gestured with his chattergun.

“I remember, sir.” Nhu Van Sun watched him with boyish anxiety.

“You have a family, Sergeant?”

“Fam-lee?”

“Wife. Children.”

“Oh, yes.” Nhu Van Sun smiled. “Wife, children. I have. In town call Ba Dong. Wife, three little girl.”

“I hope you get back to them in one piece,” Tyreen murmured, and moved away. His body had no spring left in it. He cursed his weakness with rising anger.

He looked both ways and crossed the road boldly. Theodore Saville lay burrowed into position in the ditch beside the road, concealed by a wadding of turf he had upheaved as a breastwork. The submachine gun looked like a toy in Saville’s enormous hands. Tyreen spraddled his legs and stood looking up the road. “What time is it?”

Saville did not look at his watch. “Quarter of seven.”

“Think there’ll be anything coming down this road that we can use? We can’t get far in an oxcart or a motor scooter.”

“Something had better come along, David, because you’re not going to make it from here to Chutrang on foot under full pack.”

Tyreen said very distinctly, “Theodore, I can outwalk you and outclimb you and Goddamn it I don’t want to hear any more about that from you.”

“All right,” Saville said mildly.

“If I get knocked off, you’ll have to take over. You know that, don’t you?”

“I figure to see to it you don’t get knocked off.”

“I wish I could find some way to hate you,” said Tyreen. He walked up the road a few yards and turned into the bush. He made a full circuit, inspecting his men in their positions, and returned to Saville’s post, bellying down beside the big man and wiping his face with a crumpled handkerchief. “What time is it?”

“Five of.”

“Five of what?”

“Zero-six-fifty-five,” said Saville.

“Sorry,” Tyreen snapped.

“Okay.”

Saville put down his gun and took out his waterproof cigarette pack. He offered one to Tyreen. They lit up, and Saville said, “I ran into Harry Green last night. Drunk out of his mind. An M.P. told me he’d lost half his company out in the boondocks. Harry was in pretty bad shape.”

“That’s what you get for being soft,” Tyreen said.

“Uh-huh,” Saville said listlessly. “I wonder what’s bugging Corporal Smith.”

“He’s on the near edge of combat fatigue.”

“I wish we could send the kid home.”

“We can’t.”

“David.”

“What?”

“Suppose we can’t get Eddie out of there.”

“The orders are to silence him.”

Saville nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

Tyreen swore. “Jaynshill’s got something in the hole. He knows a lot more than what he let me see in his hand. He’s too anxious to shut Eddie up. I’m an old hand, Theodore, but I don’t see butchering your best friend, no matter what excuse you’ve got. If it was my job, I’d do my damnedest to get him out, and then if I failed I’d let it go at that.”

“But it isn’t your job,” Saville said. “So quit worrying about it. We’ve got our orders, that’s all.”

“No,” Tyreen said. “That isn’t all.”

“What else is there?”

Tyreen made no answer. His hand shook. He swallowed a quinine capsule, and Saville, witnessing his act, said: “Better go easy on those. You don’t want to pass out on us.”

“Worry about your own skin, all right?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Tyreen’s tongue licked the poison tooth in the back of his mouth. Storm clouds were socked right down on the mountains and coming forward, toward the sea. A flight of birds soared overhead in close formation, white bellies and wings against a gray sky, moving without sound. Tyreen turned his head slowly to watch them glide out of sight. He glanced up the road; the light was murky and uncertain, a poor light for shooting. Sleepy, he opened a ration and ate. Saville said, “How much time do you think we ought to give it?”

“Another half-hour. Then we’ll pull out.”

“I hate to think of what the gooks can do to Eddie Kreizler in the hour we waste here.”

“I hate to think what they could do to him in the time it would take us to get to Chutrang on foot,” Tyreen answered. “It’s worth the risk.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to decide that.”

J. D. Hooker snaked into sight through the grass. “Something coming up the road, sir.”

“I don’t hear anything,” said Tyreen.

“Some kind of wagon, I guess.”

“All right. Get back to your post.”

Hooker disappeared. Grass waved, marking his route. In time a faint squeaking reached Tyreen’s ears, and Saville said, “Hooker’s’ got radar. Like a bat.”

A fat water buffalo came around the bend and plodded up the road, pulling a cart with two huge wooden wheels. A wizened little Vietnamese walked along beside the animal. “Let them go by,” Tyreen said.

At a leisurely gait the cart rattled by and presently disappeared to the north, leaving deep ruts in the muddy road. After it was gone, nothing remained but the silence and a needle-thin beginning drizzle. Tyreen’s vision swam, and he closed his eyes until the spell passed. Saville said, “Well, we might try praying.”

Tyreen said nothing. It had not occurred to him to pray. He had always found the idea of God vaguely improbable; he did not believe in a benevolent deity who laid down millions of years of evolution in order to prepare for Ho Chi Minh and the submachine gun, and General Jaynshill’s order to free Kreizler or, that failing, kill him.

Tyreen believed in one thing: he believed that what he did would leave its mark. It was as unquestionable as the stones in the road.

Captain Eddie Kreizler’s face was a bitter mask. The narrow cell was crowded and smelled of many things. It had a small population of rats that had to be driven back into their holes periodically. The darkness was almost complete; there was only the small slot-shaped hole in the door. If a man listened above the snores and groans of other prisoners, the growling of their bellies, and the occasional exhausted whispers, he could hear a sound or two that came from outside and gave reassurance that the world still turned: the drip of rain on the roof, an occasional tramping of boots across the compound, now and then the rumble of a motor vehicle.

The others were North Vietnamese political prisoners, crowded in like corpses. A young man kept talking nervously to Kreizler until Kreizler spoke rudely to him. The young man spat on him. “Dey kok me-ey,” he said — “American imperialist.” The young man’s teeth were black from chewing betel nuts. He climbed over several prisoners, stepped on a rat and squashed its head, and hunkered down in a far corner.

Offensive smells assaulted Kreizler’s nose, and he wondered what the PANVN interrogators had done to his executive officer, Lieutenant Chinh. He rubbed his aching jaw. The North Vietnamese captain had bruised him painfully, prying his mouth open and extracting the cyanide pill before Kreizler had got a chance to work it out and swallow it.

Eddie Kreizler thought, They won’t get a thing out of me.

He was thick-chested, long-legged. A small premature bald spot showed at his scalp lock. He had shrewd eyes and a square, amiable face, very wide across the cheeks and forehead. His nose was hooked; his mouth was made for easy smiling.

When the PANVN soldiers brought Lieutenant Chinh back to the cell, Kreizler focused his full attention on the South Vietnamese officer. They opened the door and pushed Chinh inside and slammed the door; made of metal, it clanged like a Chinese gong. Lieutenant Chinh sprawled across a prone man too starved and sick to move away. Chinh picked himself up and stood there, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He did not seem badly hurt. They had bandaged his wounded arm. Kreizler’s solemn features lost their weariness, and he watched with great care, trying to catch some hint of expression on Chinh’s cheeks.

Chinh threaded a path forward. No one moved aside; a hoarse voice cursed him. He sat down beside Kreizler and did not speak; his unrevealing eyes looked at nothing in particular.

Kreizler said, “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

Lieutenant Chinh had a narrow, handsome face and a thin body, lithe and wiry. A trimmed mustache graced his upper lip. He held up his hands, and even in the false light Kreizler could see matted blood over the knuckles and cuticles. The fingertips were already beginning to swell over the nails. Chinh put his hands down with care and smiled with his teeth. “I tell them nothing.”

“You will.”

“No. Nothing.”

Kreizler said, “They’ll take me out and soften me up, and then they’ll throw me back in here to think about it while they take you out again. Next time they’ll go to work on your feet and maybe stick a red-hot iron up your ass. Then they’ll toss you in here again and let me look at you and stew for a while. They’ll take me out again and give me the same treatment. They’ll have us working on each other.”

Chinh’s glance came up. “What do they want?”

“They want to know what I know.”

“What do you know, Captain?”

“A few things I don’t want them to know.”

“You can lie to them?”

“Not for very long. They know how to bust a man up.”

“And you do not trust me. You think I will talk.”

“Sure you will,” Eddie Kreizler said.

Chinh’s proud eyes flashed. “Not before you.”

“Maybe. But today or tomorrow you’ll tell them anything they want to hear.”

“No. I tell nothing.”

“Sure you will,” Kreizler said again. “And so will I. I told you, Lieutenant. They know how.”

“Drugs?”

“Anything that’ll work. They’re adaptable.”

He gave Chinh time to think about that. Then he said, “You never know where loyalty ends and cowardice begins. Every man has a limit.”

After a while Chinh asked, “What must we do?”

Kreizler said, “If you can’t raise the bridge, you lower the river.”

“What?”

“They’re not getting any information out of me.”

“Then what you do?”

“When the guards come to take me out for interrogation, we jump their leader.”

“But they will shoot us. If we try that, they will kill us.” Kreizler only watched him calmly. Chinh said, “They kill us.”

“I know.”

“What time is it?” Tyreen asked.

Saville looked at his watch. “Five after seven.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Out in the road Sergeant Khang squatted wearily, sifting dirt and pebbles. Saville said, “I don’t know about him. Maybe it was a mistake to bring him in on this. Like trying to court a bull by waving a red blanket at him.”

“He knows the country, doesn’t he?”

“So does Corporal Smith.”

“Smith’s got a wire down in him somewhere,” said Tyreen.

“I don’t know.” Saville was not a man of words. Even pencils always seemed to break in his big hands.

A fury of sweating chills shook Tyreen. Saville, whose eyes never missed much, said, “You didn’t have to take this job, David. Nobody’d care.”

“I care.”

The drizzle kept them damp and discomfited. Wind made ripples through the elephant grass, and Tyreen peered across the road, trying to pick out Nhu Van Sun’s position, but he could not see Sergeant Sun or the machine gun emplacement. That was good; he did not want to be able to see it.

Saville said, “You ought to be back in the States taking it easy.”

“That’s what General Jaynshill thinks.”

“He cut orders on you?”

“Not yet. Next week, I imagine.”

“Uh-huh,” said Saville. “That would just about break you, wouldn’t it? A desk job, I mean. That’s what’s biting you.”

“Theodore, you talk too much. Last time I checked, you were neither my mother nor my keeper.”

Tyreen’s lips pushed rhythmically out and down. He rolled over on one shoulder to stare up the road. “What’s that?”

Sergeant Hooker was behind him. “Sounds like a jeep, sir. Maybe a three-quarter-ton truck.”

“Get back to your post, Sergeant.”

Hooker disappeared, and Saville said, “Get your ass down, David,” in a very mild tone.

Tyreen flattened out. There was a chugging up the road, an unhurried gravel-crunching, and the sound of an engine changing gears. Sergeant Khang got up on his feet and faded back into the brush. Tyreen’s face was sweat-drenched and greenish. They lay in ambush along the road, waiting for an unsuspecting enemy, ready to cut the enemy to pieces — pieces of flesh, Tyreen thought, flesh and gristle, intestines and blood, cracked bones and ripsawed organs and severed joints like butchers’ meat cuts. The mind must lock out the knowledge that enemy soldiers were men.

Tyreen said, “Wait and see if it’s a truck. Let it go by if it’s not big enough to carry the six of us.”

He cleared his submachine gun. His attention narrowed down like a cone on the far bend of the road. The ugly square snout of a truck lunged around into view. “Deuce and a half,” said Saville. “Almost too damned big. Wonder what they’re carrying?”

The truck came grinding up the road, smashing the silence to pieces. Tyreen butted the weapon to his shoulder and laid his cheek along the stock, and then lowered it and ducked his head out of view. He spoke over his shoulder in a calm voice:

“Sergeant Khang.”

“Gung ho, Colonel,” said the Vietnamese. Over the rumbling of the truck Tyreen heard Khang’s boots tramp out onto the road surface. Tyreen slid back and edged his eyes over the breastwork. Saville said, “Two soldiers in the cab.”

The truck was painted battle gray. Its coarse-mesh grille looked like bared teeth. Tires chewed up the road, and the gears shifted down loudly. A hundred feet away, the truck slowed, and a Vietminh soldier in a flat helmet stepped out on the running board with his rifle lifted in one hand. Sergeant Khang stood out in the middle of the road in his undershirt, weaponless, waving the truck down. It stopped with a dusty squeak, and the driver leaned out. Khang started talking loudly in Vietnamese. Tyreen watched the driver’s face. The second soldier got down and walked ahead ten feet to stand in front of Khang and wave the rifle at him. Khang was talking rapidly, using his hands. The soldier shook his head with exasperation and turned around and yelled at the driver; the driver climbed out of his cab, lugging a Chinese machine pistol.

That was when a hand reached out of the truck bed and pushed back the tarpulin flap. A booted leg appeared. Saville murmured in Tyreen’s ear: “Troop carrier. We’re in the soup, David. God knows how many men in there.”

The PANVN soldier climbed out of the back of the truck — a captain, by his insignia. He looked around the tail edge and said irritably, “Cha di mo? Sao!”

The driver said, “Om dau, Dai-uy.”

“Di di” the captain snapped. He marched forward and grabbed the driver by the shoulder and propelled him back toward the truck. “Di di.” The captain strode on toward Khang.

“Time to bail him out,” Tyreen murmured, and stood bolt upright, locking his submachine gun down toward the PANVN captain. Tyreen said, “Dai-uy!”

Saville stood up beside him and trained his gun on the truck. The driver stood frozen with his hand on the windshield.

The captain wheeled away from Khang. When his glance found Tyreen, his body became totally still. Tyreen spoke in Vietnamese: “Tell your men to surrender.”

For a long instant of time, the captain’s eyes bored into Tyreen’s across the thirty feet of ground separating them. Sergeant Khang turned and walked off the road into the elephant grass. A moment later there was a loud clack as Khang fed a round into the chamber of his submachine gun. The North Vietnamese captain had not spoken or stirred.

“Now!” Tyreen said.

The captain’s head revolved slowly from right to left and then, abruptly, he barked a swift command and launched himself in a swift dive away from the road.

The submachine gun bucked like a jackhammer in Tyreen’s fists. It sewed a ragged stitch of bullets across the captain’s combat jacket. The captain collapsed on the far edge of the road, and the helmeted soldier, trying to bring his rifle to bear, dropped like a plumb stone under the attack of Sergeant Khang’s weapon. Theodore Saville’s gun rattled like an electric typewriter. The driver pitched away from the truck cab, and Saville laced a neat line of holes low along the tarpaulin that covered the truck bed. There was a lot of shouting inside the truck. A large hole appeared in the tarp, smoking around its edges: someone inside was shooting blindly. Three men leaped from the tailgate with rifles, and one of them went down, shot, before he had a chance to use his weapon. The other two dived for the far side of the road, and Tyreen heard the slow thudding of a 7.62 submachine gun, probably Corporal Smith’s. Tyreen turned to add his own fire to Saville’s, raking back and forth the length of the truck bed, and over the deafening pound of it Tyreen heard Saville’s angry roar.

“Where in hell is that machine gun?”

A spray of bullets from J. D. Hooker’s position cut ugly white scars across the metal of the truck bed and back fender. Hooker appeared on the road, jerking a grenade off his combat harness, and Tyreen slapped his voice at Hooker: “Cut that out, you fool!” Hooker did not hear him; the squat-browed Sergeant started running toward the truck, bent low and weaving. Theodore Saville wheeled past Tyreen and sprinted onto the road to intercept Hooker. Tyreen covered him with a tearing blast of fire into the tarp-covered truck. A body sagged against the tarp from inside, bulging it out. Saville made a low dive at Hooker’s knees and spilled the man down. The grenade rolled out of Hooker’s fist, and its handle popped away. Saville scrambled after it, got a grip on it, and threw it overhand down the road.

Tyreen saw it arc through the air; he dived flat and covered his head with his wrists. The explosion rocked the earth. He heard fragments swish through the elephant grass. When he lifted his head, Saville had rolled under the truck and Hooker was lurching to his feet. Tyreen could hear every syllable of Hooker’s savage curses. Saville yelled once and then, holding it by the muzzle, whacked his submachine gun out against Hooker’s shins. Hooker cried out and fell down. Saville dragged him under the truck.

Tyreen had a bad moment fumbling a new magazine into his weapon. Sergeant Khang was still putting bursts of fire through the tarpaulin. There was a single ragged after-volley of 7.62 fire from the bush across the road. Someone in the truck was moaning. When Khang’s gun ran dry, there was no shooting. Tyreen trained his sights on the tailgate, but no one put a foot out. He got up and made hand signals to Saville, under the truck. Saville shoved Hooker out of his way and crawled out, got to his knees, and moved softly alongside the truck, keeping his head down below the edge of the tarp. When he got to the tailgate, he locked his grip onto the submachine gun and wheeled upright, spraying a wicked flash of fire directly into the truck, playing his muzzle back and forth across the opening in the pulled-back tarp.

Saville ducked back around the fender and crouched by the rear tire, waiting. There was no response from inside.

Impatient, Tyreen walked onto the road. Hooker was crawling out from under the truck, all tangled up with the body of the dead driver. Up the road a few yards, Sergeant Khang stepped into sight and stood with his legs apart, gun braced on his hip. Tyreen hopped across a puddle and went past Hooker and climbed into the truck cab. There was a little window in the back of it, but the tarp came down just behind the window and he could not see into the bed of the truck. He slid across the seat and got out the far side of the truck, walked back to the tailgate and flipped the corner of the tarp back with his gunbarrel. Someone made a small sound, low in the throat. There was no shooting. The acrid stench of sulphur fumes was strong in Tyreen’s nostrils.

He pulled the tarp back with his fist and walked around behind the truck, pointing his gun and his eyes into the interior. There were three soldiers on the floor. Two of them were obviously dead. The floor was awash with blood. The third man lay broken across one of the others. He had two bullet holes in his face, but he was moaning softly.

Tyreen nodded to Saville. The big man climbed up inside and toed one of the dead men. He knelt over the wounded soldier, but the man was dead when Saville touched him. He had a brief look at the third man and climbed out of the truck.

Tyreen said, “Better check on Corporal Smith and those two that dived off the road. And find out why that machine gun wasn’t firing.”

Saville went into the grass. Sergeant Khang came up and Tyreen said, “Crawl underneath and see if we put any holes in the gas tank.”

“Sure,” said the Sergeant. “Just a cakewalk, right, Colonel?” There was a reckless shine in Khang’s eyes. He slid under the back of the truck.

Hooker sat out in the road massaging his shins. Tyreen stopped by him and looked down at the man with flat, angry eyes. “If you’d thrown that grenade in there, we’d have had a wrecked truck on our hands.”

“Better’n getting killed, Colonel.”

“Next time you’ll obey orders, Sergeant, or I’ll shoot you myself. Understood?”

Hooker’s eyes climbed up Tyreen’s body to his face. He did not speak. Corporal Smith came out of the bush and said, “Anybody hurt?”

Tyreen said, “What happened to those two soldiers?”

“One of them bought it,” said Smith.

Hooker said, “I guess that does it, then.”

“The hell it does,” said Corporal Smith. “The other one got away in the bushes. I couldn’t find him.”

“He’ll be raising the alarm, then,” Tyreen said. “We’ll have to get moving.” He put his eyes, hard as iron bullets, on J. D. Hooker. “You are in trouble with me as of right now, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Khang jackknifed out from under the rear axle and stood up, brushing himself off. “No damage under there,” he said. “None that I can see, anyway.”

Tyreen walked past the truck into the bush and strode through the grass with swimming motions. Combat tension glazed his cheeks. He found Saville kneeling beside the bipod-mounted machine gun. Sergeant Sun was sitting a little way back, his eyes round and anxious. Saville said, “He says the gun wouldn’t fire. I’m trying to find out what fouled up.” He was pulling the mechanism apart.

“Forget it,” Tyreen said. “One of them got away. They’ll have an alarm out within an hour or two. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait a minute.” Saville lifted the trigger mechanism and turned it over in his big hands. “Firing pin bent all out of shape. That’s what hung it up.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not right away. Not without tools.”

“Then leave the thing here,” Tyreen said. “Let’s go.”

When they reached the road, Khang and Smith had dragged the three dead men out of the truck bed. Sergeant Sun looked at the corpses, and the light changed behind his young eyes. Corporal Smith said, “What about burying these, Colonel?”

“Roll them off the road. We’re clearing out.”

Sergeant Khang’s head swiveled around. “Leave them out to rot?”

“I didn’t make the rules, Sergeant, I only live by them. Pile into the truck, everybody. Corporal Smith, you drive — you know the roads. I’ll ride with you in the cab.”

Tyreen got up into the high seat beside Corporal Smith. “That yellow hair of yours may get us in trouble. Put this cap on, and pull it low.”

Tyreen watched the others walk around to the back of the truck. Khang and Nhu Van Sun were wearing Vietminh uniforms stripped off the dead men: a line of red-rimmed holes ran across the back of the captain’s jacket drapped over Sergeant Khang’s shoulders. The truck rocked gently with the weight of men climbing into the back. Saville was a monstrous shape coming forward through the rain from the elephant grass. He stopped by the truck door. “I’ve got that busted firing pin in my pocket. If the Reds find that gun, they won’t get much use out of it.”

“Get in,” Tyreen said.

The truck settled when Saville put his weight on the back. Beyond the truck’s shadow, the road lay in a wash of pale light, glimmering and soaked. Tyreen looked at Corporal Smith’s shadowed face. “Let’s go.”

The truck chugged into life. Beads of water shimmered on the trembling hood. Corporal Smith thrust the knobbed floor stick into gear and slowly jockeyed the truck back and forth to turn it around in the narrow road. He grunted with effort and said, “Be quicker to take this road all the way up, Colonel. But we stand a better chance going up the mountain behind Giay Nghèo. Less patrols up that way.”

“How’s the road?”

“We can make it, I guess.”

“All right.”

Tyreen swallowed a capsule and used his pocketknife in an attempt to scrape half-congealed blood off a crumpled North Vietnamese fatigue jacket. He had to stop twice to close his eyes and fight a chilling ague. The road ran between rows of paddies, an uneven ribbon of puddles and sand, dangerously bordered by deep rain ditches. It became a lane running between a sugar plantation and a rice paddy; it circled a swamp, threaded an immense stand of bamboo, and curled inland toward the mountains, starting to pitch sharply upward. Tyreen said, “How much gas have we got?”

“It says half a tank.”

“That ought to be enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tyreen said, “You don’t give away much, do you?”

The Corporal risked a quick glance at him. “No, sir,” he said. “Here’s where we turn off.”

A sudden fork took them lurching to the left up a steep hill, and abruptly they were enclosed within the rain forest. The truck was clumsy, too big for the road; the track was narrow and rough, two flowing ruts separated by a high hump. Ahead it curled quickly out of sight into thick, obscure timber. Vines crept tightly down the tree trunks; parasites and creepers hung low along the road. A small, furry animal scuttled across the road not far ahead of them. The day was cold and dark and wet; it pressed against Tyreen, and he fought back resentfully. Corporal Smith shifted into one of many gears; the truck lurched. He double-clutched and kept firm grip on the heavy wheel to fight the pull of the uneven road. The truck rocked sluggishly back and forth. Branches scraped the roof, clawed at the tarpaulin, and slapped the windshield, making them flinch. Tyreen’s eyes could not penetrate the thick undergrowth ahead. The tires rolled slowly, grinding down the matted ruts; the engine roared in low gears, and in that manner, slowly and awkwardly, the truck bucked its way into the mountains. The cold, thin air of this high country came through the glassless windows to cut like a blade. The air was soaked, and Tyreen could see his own breath-mist steaming away from his face. Corporal Smith hunched over the wheel, watching the road for sharp bends and wheel-smashing bumps. They reached a fork, and without hesitation the Corporal swung the truck off, swaying crazily, onto the tilting side of the mountain. Trees fell away momentarily. They ran across the flat floor of a long jungle clearing. Below, Tyreen saw the lances and spires of treetops. They broke into the close rain forest again and climbed stiffly in a straining low gear at a speed a walking man could match.

Corporal Smith said, “I used to be company driver for Colonel Urquhart when he was company commander.”

“You were in Transportation Corps?”

“That was before I got busted and volunteered for Special Forces,” the Corporal said. It was impossible to make out any shading of his tone.

Rain fell steadily on the mountains. They climbed a narrow, rocky trail with a precipice dropping away to the right and no bottom in sight. The road seemed narrower than the truck. Corporal Smith said, “The old time Yards say they never had a cold spell like this. Saying the spirits brought the freeze because they got mad at Uncle Ho. It sure raised hell with all them opium poppies.”

Tyreen could not make out the cause of Smith’s sudden burst of talk. Smith said, “I hear they’re rigging Colonel Urquhart’s battalion for an air drop into this zone. Big secret invasion. I used to serve under Colonel Urquhart. He—”

“Where’d you hear that, Corporal?”

“Hear what?”

“About an air drop.”

“I handled the radio for Captain Kreizler. It came in a few days ago, sir.”

“From where?”

“How’s that?”

Tyreen said, “Who sent that message?”

“Hell, Colonel, I don’t remember. Maybe General Jaynshill’s headquarters.”

Tyreen said, “I doubt that.”

“Well, then, maybe it wasn’t.”

“Colonel Urquhart’s outfit just transferred down to Saigon,” Tyreen said. “They’re in a fight down there. You picked up a false piece of information somewhere.”

“Yes, sir,” Smith said.

The truck shot out into the air. Tyreen’s stomach knotted; from the perspective of his seat he could see nothing but the fall beyond. Smith screwed the wheel around. The truck skittered on a tight horseshoe bend, and Tyreen gripped the edge of the windshield. The Corporal shifted down and straightened the wheels and drove into a bush before the truck righted itself. He put it back on the road by smashing down a scrub tree. It broke with a crack and an echo.

From the north face of the mountain Tyreen saw the vast upheaval of peaks beyond. Dark rain forest grew on the slopes like a beard under a pale chin of rock crags and a brown-gray nose of boulders. Above it was a cleft dome of rock and scrub — a high granite monument hewn in half by a slash of sky.

“Sang Chu gorge,” Corporal Smith said. “Up that way.”

Across the heaving land between, there was no sign of life. A spindle tracery of plant stalks grew on bald mountains. Below, out of the wind, the jungle lay in a dense mat. Cold chewed into Tyreen, gripping his joints; it whipped a lash against his exposed nose and ears. All he could hear was the rasp of the truck’s high-torque engine.

Watching Corporal Smith, he had no clue to the Corporal’s character, but he admired a man who could maneuver a two-and-a-half-ton truck up a road meant for oxcarts. Smith’s temper seemed to alternate like a pendulum, but his square hands worked the wheel boldly.

The broken surface of the high ground swelled and dipped away in all directions. It was all cross-canyons and earth standing on its end and spires thrusting up as though poked through ragged holes in the undulating quilt of the heavy rain forest. He saw no room for a town or a railroad. If the Sang Chu flowed down out of the high gorge, then it had to be hidden under the forest canopy, arched over by treetops and never touched by the sun.

The road went down into the forest. Corporal Smith’s eyes strained into the troughs ahead. Roots of jungle trees writhed above the ground, thicker than a man. Fungus and slime crawled onto the road. Gibbons moved through the branches, vague flickering shadows against a violet ceiling. Tyreen had parachuted into Burma in 1945, and it reminded him of that. He lighted a cigarette and sat with it uptilted between his teeth. His eyes slid shut, and he had a fractured moment of unconsciousness; then the truck jolted him, and he almost bit through the cigarette. Its inch of ash spilled on his pants. He chewed the end off and spat it out.

Corporal Smith said, “I used to race jalopies when I was a kid.”

“How old are you, Corporal?”

“Twenty-four, sir. Going on a twenty-fourth of my life I been in this stinking jungle.”

“Where do you hail from?”

“Albuquerque.” A rock in the road made the truck jump. Tyreen threw out the butt of his cigarette. Smith said, “I used to think driving was fun. Used to race jalopies around like the sun was going down and never going to come up again. But no fun in this. No speed, you know?”

“Speed enough.” Tyreen coughed and said, “The speed of death,” and then laughed at himself.

Smith said, “What, sir?”

“Nothing.”

The road ran up a sudden pitch and flopped over a bald crest and for that instant, hanging suspended with a drop before them so steep that Tyreen could not see the road for the hood, he had a fleeting picture of glittering tracks in a valley, rails worn smooth by hard use. The image came to him through a notch in the mountains; it disappeared as soon as the road left the summit. They dropped into a narrow passage walled by rock. Uneven turns volleyed the truck back and forth; it jounced on its stiff springs. They curled once more into the jungle on a flat basin floor with the big engine sawing like a giant grinder. Rocks popped, crushing audibly under the tires. The wind here was not quite so cold or so cutting. The rising sun made a faint luminescence in the clouds, visible now and then through holes in the treetops.

“Colonel,” said Corporal Smith.

“What?”

“You got one of those poison things in your tooth?”

Tyreen said, “Why?”

“I don’t know. Captain Kreizler had one. I don’t see how a man could do that. Swallowing poison on purpose, I mean. You get to thinking a lot about dying and things like that. I figured for a while maybe I had some kind of charm — some lucky piece like maybe a rabbit’s foot or something. Been up here a year and never even got scratched yet. Last night, the whole outfit got wiped out. But not me. I figure I’m due for rotation any time now, and every day I get scared a little more. I want to get back to my wife. She’s in Albuquerque, my wife. Went back there when they sent me to Fort Bragg. Year and a half ago, that was. She’s a sweet kid, my wife.”

Tyreen thought there was something strange about the way Smith’s talky spells switched on and off as if they were connected to a time clock.

For a while neither man spoke. They drove into a mossy obscurity of rot and tangles. It startled Tyreen when Corporal Smith blurted:

“Colonel, I got something to say.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I wasn’t just lucky last night.” Smith licked a corner of his mouth. “I took a dive. I stayed in the brush until the shooting quit. I didn’t move. I was just laying there, crying. I was crying, sir. I heard them shooting the boys up. I kept my eyes closed tight. I had my hands on my head. Kept crying like that. It was like somebody pushed me down flat and I just couldn’t move. I looked up a couple times and saw what was happening, but I didn’t lift a Goddamn finger.”

He glanced swiftly at Tyreen. “I keep telling myself it wouldn’t of done nobody much good if I’d shot back at them.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have.”

“But I don’t get paid to lie on my belly and cry.”

Tyreen stirred up the energy to say, “You did the right thing, telling me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I doubt it will go against you. A man freezes up in combat — it happens, Corporal.”

Smith flicked him a glance that might have been sardonic. Tyreen said, “Nothing you could have done would have made much difference.”

“I might have got greased.”

“We’re all lucky you didn’t.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Smith said. He was watching the dark corridor of the road. His mind had receded, and he did not speak again.

You fought, Tyreen thought. You fought; you ran; you killed. Now and then you laughed. Finally, if you were not killed, you endured.

J. D. Hooker kept staring at Saville. Hooker’s little eyes glowed in their sockets. The truck bed jounced under them; the two Vietnamese sergeants rode at the corners of the tailgate, watching the track unroll behind. The bullet-shredded tarpaulin flapped at both sides.

Hooker said, “You never liked me much, right, Captain?”

“I never thought much about it, Hooker.”

“You’re a liar. You’ve always hated my guts.”

Saville said, “This time, I didn’t hear that, Sergeant. Next time will be the last. Just as sure as there’s a hole in your ass. Do you tune me in loud and clear, soldier?”

Hooker held up both hands with the fingers splayed. “That’s how short I am, Captain. You can count the days on your fingers. So why’d you have to go and pick me for this dirty job?”

“Sergeant, it’s not your business to question me. I get paid to earn the difference between your pay and mine.”

The jungle jolted past the open endgate; the hard floor rebounded against their bodies, and there was no position in which a man could avoid punishment. Saville looked at the two Vietnamese, and he did not like the knuckle-white grasp of Nhu Van Sun’s fists on the submachine gun. Saville watched the dark jungle and remembered the rains on Guadalcanal and a battalion that had expended forty-eight hours, a hundred lives, and a shipload of ammunition to capture sixty yards of jungle from the Japanese. He wondered who owned that strip of ground now.

Twenty years ago, he had been positive about everything. He had known right from wrong.

J. D. Hooker had a hand clasped on the combat harness where he had torn off a grenade. Hooker said, “Captain, this Goddamn puking Army ever do anything for you? Never give me nothing but trouble. Like you, come at me from behind, last night. Got me when I wasn’t looking. I’d been looking at you, Captain, you’d be back in that alley right now, and I’d be drinking my beer. You was lucky. Just lucky.”

“No,” Saville said. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I wouldn’t be so damned proud of myself if I was you, Captain.”

“Maybe you would. If you were me.”

Hooker grinned unpredictably. “Could be,” he said. “Can’t fool a man like you, Captain. You’re good, and you know you’re good. Maybe I couldn’t have licked you — front or back.”

Settling the issue seemed to satisfy Hooker; he became more placid. Hooker was a competitor. He believed only in the survival of the fittest; he was wholly incapable of friendship.

Hooker’s expression of respect did not gratify Theodore Saville, but it made him feel less uneasy. He said, “You just start using your head right, Sergeant, and you’ll get through this job. But pull another stunt like what you did with that grenade, and the Colonel and I will feed you to the dogs.”

“Okay,” Hooker said mildly. He had a rasping, penetrating voice, as if his larynx were scraped raw. He said, “I ain’t anxious to make no down payment on a six-by-two ranch. Listen, Captain, what about the old man up front? What’s he doing along? He’s going to be a Goddamn drag on us.”

Saville said, “The day you can keep up with Colonel Tyreen will be a pretty good day in your book, Sergeant.”

“Come off it, Captain. I seen the way he sweats. I seen malaria before. Had it, once. Took six months to clear it out of me in the evacuation hospital. And I didn’t have it near as bad as the Colonel. Sometime today, sometime tomorrow, he’s going to drop down and not get up again. Then what do we do?”

“I wouldn’t waste too much time worrying about the Colonel,” Saville said.

“Begging the Captain’s pardon. But I know what I see.”

Saville’s mouth was tight and straight. Presently he said, “The Colonel made the death march on Bataan.”

“Yeah?”

“They put him on a freighter with sixteen hundred POWs. It was headed for Japan. The Japs didn’t give them any food or anything to drink. They drank each other’s urine.”

“Jesus,” said J. D. Hooker.

“Our own planes bombed the ship and killed a few hundred of our men. The Colonel survived that, too. He swam ashore, and the Japs picked them up again. They put them on boxcars and rode them down to another freighter and threw them in the hold. That time they got as far as Formosa before our planes bombed them. It killed another hundred men or so. The Colonel lived through that. He got away from the wrecked boat and drifted in a lifeboat with three other officers. They were on the ocean three days before the Navy picked them up. The Colonel was down to eighty-five pounds. I wonder if you could live through anything like that, Sergeant?”

Hooker said, “That was twenty years ago. Twenty-three years.”

“It takes more than arithmetic to make a man tough. You can pick your own horse, Sergeant, but my money’s on Colonel Tyreen.”

Hooker nodded, thinking about it. “He got a wife, the Colonel?”

“He did have.”

“Me too. My wife bugged out on me. Run off with a Goddamn Marine. Just like my old lady — she had it for gyrenes, too. My old lady was quite a bitch. So the Colonel’s lady bugged out, hey?”

“Shut up, Hooker.”

Hooker sliced his hand sideways as if making a quick sweeping judo chop. “Maybe if he had a wife to go back to, he might not be so puking anxious to get us all killed.”

Saville said, “If you want to stay alive, Sergeant, you’d better forget that. If there’s one man who can get you out of here and home free, it’s the Colonel.”

“I don’t need no Boy Scout’s help to get across the street. I look out for myself first. I figure everybody else does the same. The Colonel’s about to have enough trouble looking after his own hide.”

Hooker looked aft. He leaned forward confidentially. “And the same for you and me, Captain. Them two gooks back there. You understand what I mean, sir? Strike you funny, don’t it, the way that machine gun got jammed so handy? And the way that other gook was shooting, it seemed like he was trying on purpose to miss. Sir, seems to me we got trouble — up to here. We don’t need no more help from them gooks. Captain, if I was—”

“You’re not,” Saville barked softly. “Hooker, it’s one of a sergeant’s duties to keep his stupid opinions to himself.”

“Since when did Moses trot out an Eleventh Commandment?” J. D. Hooker demanded. “Captain, think about this — how many Vietnamese you know you can trust?”

Saville said, “You’re up as of right now for a Company Court, Sergeant. And a few more remarks will get you a Summary Court Martial. Clear?”

Hooker did not answer. But his eyes shifted toward the two Vietnamese, and his righteous expression made his thinking obvious. Saville thought, a jackass with chevrons was still a jackass. He growled in his throat. “Just keep your Goddamn mouth shut, Sergeant.”

Hooker sat like a Buddha, his eyes like a pair of black olives. Khang and Sun guarded the open endgate, their profiles as complementary as Greek masks: Khang’s mouth was upturned with defensive dry humor, and Sun’s mouth curved down.

The truck jammed to a halt. It upset Saville, jarred him; it brought him up on one knee, scooping up his weapon. He moved his agile bulk toward the back of the truck, glimpsing Sergeant Sun’s alert stare and the bright flash of Khang’s excited, strained grin. Hooker grumbled something behind him. Saville vaulted the tailgate and dropped to a crouch behind the truck, sweeping the jungle with sharp inspection; he braced the submachine gun stock inside the crook of his elbow, and his finger whitened on the trigger.

Boots trotted alongside the truck. He heard David Tyreen’s calm, practical voice: “Heads up, now.”

Tyreen wheeled around beside him. “Roadblock about four hundred yards ahead.”

“Where are we?”

“About two miles short of the bridge. Sergeant Khang!”

“Right, sir.” Khang dropped to the ground.

“Take the jack up front and jack up the front axle. Pretend you’re changing the left-hand tire.”

Khang crouched under the truck to unhook the axle-jack. Tyreen said to Saville, “They’ve seen us from the roadblock. Changing a tire ought to keep them from getting too suspicious. Theodore, you take Corporal Smith and work your way up to the roadblock. Set yourselves to jump them. Knives and garrotes — we’re too close to the bridge for noise. I’ll give you five minutes to post yourselves. Then we’ll drive up to the roadblock. When we’ve got their attention, jump them.”

“How many?” Saville said.

“Three men and a machine gun.”

Corporal Smith tramped back to them, and Saville jerked a finger in signal and turned directly into the rain forest. Smith came right behind him. Treetops shut out the day-light, and the damp half-light was plum-colored. Dark, stinking, mud sucked at his boots. Bent double, Saville rammed through the undergrowth, chilled and half-blind and clawed by tangled thorns. A fine mist of water and mud particles hung suspended in the air. He heard the clacking ratchet of the axle-jack. The sound diminished quickly, absorbed into the matted thickness of the jungle.

It was midmorning, and yet in the clammy dark there was a visible glow of phosphorescent mold. Vines and briers left welts on his hands and cheeks. He heard the squelch of Smith’s footsteps behind him. A monkey racketed through the branches, tautening his nerves; Smith barged into him, and Saville started off again. He had to rely on an instinctual sense of direction. The packed jungle floor of ancient, decayed leaves lay many feet thick upon the earth; it was like walking on a sodden sponge.

Smith tapped his shoulder. When Saville looked around, Smith touched a finger to the face of his watch. Saville nodded and hurried forward. He could hear the shallow rushing of Smith’s forced-quiet breathing. A snake wriggled up the trunk of a tree, and Saville made a wide circle around it. There was no trail; he left a backtrack like the route through a maze. His eyes strained through the obscurity and then, abruptly, he heard the sound of voices. He caught Smith’s glance and turned toward the sound, moving his feet with care.

Light glittered on metal somewhere ahead; it was a momentary vision, immediately blotted out. He put his boots down soundlessly.

He made his way around a thick brier patch and crouched under a dripping tree. Through branches he could see three soldiers in flat helmets and gray battle fatigues grouped around an ugly machine gun behind a saw-horse roadblock. They stood peering down the road and talking, without great excitement. Saville made brief hand signals to Corporal Smith and watched the Corporal move hesitantly off to the left. Saville moved straight ahead, hearing the truck engine start up somewhere back down the road. The three soldiers straightened, and two of them turned away from the sawhorse to reach for their rifles. Saville crawled like a beetle through the greasy mud. He lost sight of Corporal Smith on his left. The truck came grinding up the road, getting steadily louder. At the edge of the timber, Saville laid down his submachine gun and drew from his belt a short length of nylon cord. He waited, not moving, while one of the soldiers came over to the side of the road to look down past the bend. The soldier turned and spoke to his comrades. There was no reply; the two men readied themselves behind the machine gun, locking a belt of ammunition into the mechanism. When the third soldier spoke again, Saville reached out of the brush and tightened the nylon garrote around the man’s throat.

The soldier’s brief struggle brought his two companions to their feet. One of them shouted. Saville felt his victim go limp; he let go the cord and stepped forward, pushing the inert soldier ahead of him, holding the man up. He said plainly, “Smith.”

No one appeared. A rifle came around toward him, and he lifted the strangled soldier bodily and hurled the man across half the width of the road. The body fell across the machine gun, tangled up with both soldiers. Saville ran into the road with his knife. The two soldiers rolled out from under the dead man; one of them was at Saville’s feet, and he plunged his knife into the man’s chest while the other soldier, having no rifle, shoved the dead man away from the machine gun and reached for the grip to turn the weapon on Saville.

Saville left his knife where it was lodged. He whipped his legs up over the writhing stabbed soldier and kicked the barrel of the machine gun. The gun went over on its side. The soldier let go and rose to meet Saville’s attack, bare-handed. Saville stretched past the man’s short-armed reach and drove four stiff fingers into the man’s throat. The man went down gurgling.

The truck squeaked to a stop just beyond the sawhorse, and Tyreen swung down from the cab. His voice was matter-of-fact. “Where’s the Corporal?”

“Something I’d like to know,” Saville said.

Sergeant Hooker rammed past him and plunged into the jungle. Hooker came out, dragging Corporal Smith by the shirt collar. Smith was swallowing in spasms. Hooker flung the man down into the mud. Saville said, “Where were you?”

Tyreen said, “Never mind, Theodore. I had to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?” Saville was angry. He turned on Tyreen. “You should have let me know. For Christ’s sake, David!”

“If I’d warned you, you’d have looked out for him. You didn’t have time for that.” Tyreen slung his weapon over his shoulder. His face glistened with sweat. “I had you covered, Theodore.”

Corporal Smith lay breathing shallowly in the mud, full of misery. Tyreen said, “Pour him in the truck and let’s go. Sergeant Sun, you’ll drive.”

J. D. Hooker turned hotly. “Colonel, how many of us got to break before you quit trying to kill us all?”

Saville stepped across a dead Vietnamese and struck Hooker an openhanded blow across the face. Hooker spilled into the sawhorse and knocked it down. Saville took a step toward him, and Tyreen said gently, “Theodore.”

Hooker climbed to his feet and rubbed his jaw, not looking at anyone in particular. Saville said, “Drag these bodies off the road.” He picked up the sawhorse and threw it into the trees.

Sergeant Khang, saying nothing, helped Corporal Smith to his feet and led the man toward the truck. Saville squatted, braced a knee down, and yanked his knife out of a dead man’s chest. When he stood up he found Tyreen looking at him, and he said, “I was trying to remember how many years it took to learn where to put the knife to kill the man fast.”

“Easy,” Tyreen murmured.

Saville watched Corporal Smith get into the truck. He said, “David, the chances are if you swing too hard you’ll strike out. You had no right to take that chance with me.”

“I’m the master of this ship, Theodore. I had to know about him, and I didn’t have time to find out any other way.”

“Time,” Saville said. “God damn it, there are some things that just won’t happen as fast as you want, David. You can’t get nine women pregnant and expect a baby in one month.”

He stared at Tyreen, and the space between them became stuffed with a padded silence. Finally Tyreen said, “Let’s go.”

Nhu Van Sun climbed into the driver’s seat and sat staring at his hands on the wheel. It had not stopped raining. Saville took the heavy machine gun with him toward the back of the truck. Tyreen paused with one foot on the running board. “I had you covered, Theodore.”

“You said that before.”

Tyreen met his glance and climbed into the seat.

Saville tossed the machine gun into the truck bed and climbed in after it. He made a cursory effort to wipe some of the mud off his clothes. J. D. Hooker climbed in and looked at Corporal Smith, crumpled in a forward corner. Hooker said, “Captain, I doubt you’ll get a chance to court-martial me.”

“You’d better hope I do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hooker. “But I think you and me both know the truth about the Colonel.”

The engine started up, and Saville braced himself against the tailgate. Sergeant Khang came away from Smith and said, “I guess he’s kind of shook up.”

“I guess he is,” Saville said.

“You ever get the feeling you’re about to roll boxcars, Captain?”

Saville did not answer him.

McKuen paused to extract a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his face dry. He sat astraddle the number two engine nacelle, with the cowling open and his hands grease-black. He felt a deep ache in his long back.

Mister Shannon stood on the metal-mesh runway below him, festooned with small arms. Rainwater dripped off the bill of Shannon’s cap. He said, “How about it, Lieutenant?”

“I’ll not be making any promises. I ain’t a bloody mechanic.”

“Can we get her airborne?”

“And what if we do?” McKuen snorted, and bent forward to bolt the cowling down.

Shannon started to talk again; McKuen paid no attention to the words until suddenly he shot upright and said, “Quiet.” He turned his head slowly to catch the warning sound again on the flats of his eardrums, and finally he found it, a faint buzzing hum in the sky. “Piston engines,” he said. A transport, or a lonely reconnaissance bomber. “Can’t see us through the soup, anyhow. And it’s thankful I am.”

He held on to that hope while the airplane noise advanced, growing louder in the obscure sky, until he knew the plane was close overhead. And thereupon the wingtip lights appeared over the mountain, vague within the clouds, moving smoothly across his range of vision. “Twin-engine Ilyushin,” he said. “Maybe fifteen hundred feet up. He’s looking for something.”

The plane changed course, moving in a slow circle. “Looking for us,” said Mister Shannon on the ground. They waited motionless with their heads thrown back. Rain slanted against their faces; McKuen blinked. The Russian-built search plane circled the mountains, moving in and out of view in the clouds; finally it zigzagged out of sight past the mountains, and McKuen said, “They didn’t spot us.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” McKuen said. He slid back along the wing to the trailing edge and dropped to the ground. “I think maybe we ought to sit tight for a while. If we take off now, they’ll pick us up on radar — they’re waiting for us.”

Shannon said, “I’m hungry.”

“Anyone for pinochle?”

“Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“Suppose we get her off the ground. What then?”

“We point ourselves across the mountains and try like hell to get to Laos before the Reds can get fighters on our tail.”

“Lots of luck,” Mister Shannon said.

“Aye. And then some.” McKuen batted his arms together. “Let’s not be standing out here all day in this freezing bloody rain.”

Lieutenant Chinh sat guarding his tortured hands. He said irritably, “Why do they not come for us?”

“Trying to make us sweat,” said Eddie Kreizler.

The cell stank of sweat and human filth and the exhalations of twoscore raw-gummed mouths rotted by bad food. The crowded prisoners had made a circle of space for Kreizler and Chinh. No one spoke to them or looked at them; they were outsiders, even among prisoners — the American imperialist mercenary and the Vietnamese traitor to the people.

Lieutenant Chinh said, “I have think.”

“And?”

“I not do what you say.”

“I see,” said Kreizler.

“I am not a traitor,” Chinh said. “Not what you think.”

“I know you’re not a traitor, Lieutenant. I know you too well to think that.”

“This my country, not yours. But it is a sin, what you say. To kill self is a sin.”

“All right, Lieutenant.”

“They will torture me long time. Maybe they make me talk. But when I talk I tell lies.”

“Tell them the truth. Nothing you can tell them will hurt our side very much.”

“I heard radio talk. The Colonel Urquhart come. The paratroop attack. I lie to them about that.”

“They’ll know you’re lying, Lieutenant.”

Chinh had a stubborn look. He said, “What you do?”

“I’ll jump them alone. They’ll have to kill me.” He smiled. “I know — it sounds like a coward’s way out. Maybe it is.”

“No.”

I wish they’d get it over with, Kreizler thought. A rat scurried across someone’s legs and there was a feeble shout; someone threw a sandal at the rat. It broke for cover. Kreizler stood up and found spaces big enough for his feet; he crossed the room to the door and peered out through the open slot. His face seemed amiable and unconcerned. He put one hand against the cold iron of the door. Outside, within the restricted arc of vision, he could see a pair of sentries at the gate and the electrified wire fence that ran around the little jail. Beyond the fence, a squad of Vietminh guerrilla soldiers marched in ragged double file across the compound toward a supply shed. Lights burned in the headquarters building a hundred feet away. That was where they would interrogate him. He slid his mind away from that — they wanted him to think about that. The trick was to divorce mind from body. If you did not think about pain, you did not suffer.

There was no way of reckoning time. He stood by the door until his knees began to ache. With his nose close to the open slot, breathing was more tolerable. He looked back, and he could faintly see Lieutenant Chinh’s face. The handsome detail of the Vietnamese officer’s features seemed reposed, resigned, closed up. Kreizler thought, You’re a good man, Lieutenant, and it’s a Goddamn crying shame.

A slim officer stepped out on the porch of the headquarters building and stood under the lights in a mandarin-style, cream-hued uniform with the collar standing up around his neck. He slapped a swagger stick into his open palm, looked over his shoulder and spoke a few words. A quartet of soldiers came out of the building and followed the officer when he stepped down off the porch. They came toward the guardhouse. Eddie Kreizler let his hand drop away from the door; he glanced at Lieutenant Chinh and nodded. He thought he saw a break in Chinh’s expression. He looked through the slot again: the officer was talking to the gate sentries, and after a moment one of the sentries saluted and unlocked the gate. Kreizler felt weight beside him, and when he turned his head he saw Lieutenant Chinh standing at his shoulder. “Go back and sit down. Stay away from the door.”

“I no use back there,” said the Lieutenant.

“You know what I’m going to do.”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said Kreizler.

The sentry walked from the gate to the jail door. Kreizler took a pace back. He heard the officer speak, and then the rattle of a key in the door. The door squeaked, swinging outward. Kreizler braced his feet to jump, but then a swift figure lunged past him, shouldering the door away, and as Kreizler launched himself through the opening he saw Lieutenant Chinh flail into the four soldiers like an Indian running a gantlet. Chinh bellowed, and rifles cracked. Kreizler plunged after him. He swung his fist at the sentry’s startled face. Another gun went off; he saw Lieutenant Chinh lose his footing and slip down. Someone uttered a sharp command. Kreizler turned to attack the officer. He had a brief look at a cool, narrow face, drily smiling at him, and then one of his arms was jerked up painfully behind his back and there was a gun muzzle against his belly. He strained in taut struggle, shouting obscenities in Vietnamese, but the soldier did not shoot him; his arm was pulled up toward his shoulder blade, and he felt it crackle with hot pain. The officer’s amused face moved close, and a gloved hand slapped him twice across the cheeks. “Stop that, Captain. You cannot force us to kill you.”

The rifle was taken away from his stomach. He felt his arm close to breaking; he felt faint. The officer said something in a nasal voice, and Kreizler quit struggling.

Someone pushed him roughly. He stumbled forward. His toe rammed into a soft object, and he saw Lieutenant Chinh before him in the mud. Chinh was dead, shot several times. The North Vietnamese officer spoke behind him: “Your friend was fortunate, don’t you agree, Captain?”

They prodded him across the compound and into a small room within the headquarters building. He heard the officer’s British accent: “Make yourself comfortable, Captain.” Then the officer spoke in Vietnamese: “Stay here.” He was speaking to the soldiers. When Kreizler turned around, he was alone in the room with the officer.

There was a low hard cot, a chair, a ceiling light. The room had no windows. Kreizler said, “You left the door open.”

“Did I?”

“Go back and close it — from the other side.”

“Do not be flip with me, Captain.”

Kreizler sat down on the straight-back chair and fixed a bland stare on the officer. The three silver buttons on the officer’s uniform indicated that he was a colonel. He said, “Stand up, please.”

“Why?”

The Colonel’s face was pale, ascetic. He flashed his swagger stick against Kreizler’s face and Kreizler, not expecting it, could not avoid the blow. It crushed his nose with a searing flash of pain.

He heard the Colonel say, “Stand up, please.”

He got to his feet and stood unsteadily. The Colonel’s voice reached him: “I am unaccustomed to repeating myself, Captain. I trust you will not make it necessary again.”

Kreizler’s vision cleared. He lifted a hand to his face and took it away. There was a little blood on his palm.

The Colonel said, “Sophocles observed that there is one thing worse than dying, Captain. Do you know what that is?”

“I’m a little rusty on my Greek,” Kreizler said. His voice sounded as though he had a bad cold. He breathed through his mouth. His nose throbbed and pulsed.

“The thing worse than dying,” the Colonel murmured. “It’s wanting to die, Captain — wanting to die and not being able to.”

“That’s it,” said David Tyreen. He reached around behind him and slapped the tarpaulin. Saville poked his head out.

The truck crawled up a curved incline, bending back away from the Sang Chu gorge. The great cloven rock of a mountain stood high above them, two upraised monoliths like immense wrecks on a forgotten field of battle. The twin gray ridges curved in toward each other like clasped hands; they seemed almost to touch at the top.

Through a thin pattern of branches Tyreen made out the fragile ribbon of the railroad embankment, a parapet lancing upward along the inner side of split rock thighs. The single delicate track curled up the mountainside at a steep grade, perhaps twenty degrees of climb. It threaded in and out of timber patches and shot across rock slopes, supported on brittle cantilevered foundations, a breathtaking piece of engineering; it climbed gingerly onto the face of the western slope, poised itself a thousand feet above the white-water rush of the river’s cascades, and soared boldly across a slender arc of steel to the face of the eastern cliff; there it made a small, hesitant bend before it plunged out of sight into the dark mouth of a tunnel.

At the western pier of the bridge stood a tiny plateau of rock, supporting a switch and a stub of a siding, and a fortified cluster of structures half-visible where they loomed above the brink of the gorge. Above them the peak soared upward, curving in to meet its mate across a narrow band of cloud. The snouts of mountain howitzers reared around the bridge piers. Sentries moved slowly back and forth across the bridge, pausing at intervals to sweep the country with field glasses. An armored half-track waited at the western end, the helmeted figure of its observer just visible on his perch. The district was overseen by a cement-block command post hanging on the upper cliff as if suspended from a wall peg. Antiaircraft guns bristled along the crest of the mountain higher up; there was a circling radar scanner at the tip. And descending the line of the silver tracks was a regular spotting of blockhouses guarding the roadbed.

The bridge across the Sang Chu gorge was an arch of wrought iron. It appeared to be less than three hundred feet in length. Cement-block piers at either end supported guard and observation towers; the weight of the bridge hung from twin parallel arches that had their anchors in the block piers well below the roadbed. From the anchors the arches curved out, intersecting the roadbed from underneath and then rising above it to arch over the center of the bridge. The truss was reinforced by zigzag lacings of iron.

It reminded Tyreen of the bridge across Sydney Harbour in Australia: a bulky cross-hatching of metal, heavy but somehow delicate, imposing but fragile.

He had time to see the gorge, the railroad, the bridge, the sentries, and the guns; and then the road took the truck up a steep tilt of earth that blocked it all from view. They climbed north, circling away from the river, slowing to a gear-meshing crawl on the high pitch of the road. Tyreen swung out on the running board and crawled through under the tarpaulin into the bed of the truck. He said to Theodore Saville, “Did you get a good look at it?”

“Good enough. It’s a crackerbox — if we can get at it.”

J. D. Hooker said, “Wrought iron, Colonel. Put a small charge on one pier and a big charge in the middle. It’ll break in half like a puking doughnut.”

Tyreen broke open his clasp knife and tore a shredded hole in the forward hang of the tarpaulin. It opened his view through the small window in the back of the truck cab; he could see Sergeant Sun’s shoulder and had a view of the road through the windshield. Sergeant Sun turned his head and shot a swift, expressionless glance through the glass.

Corporal Smith crawled anxiously out of his corner, bracing himself against the lurch and sway of the truck. His face was flushed. “Permission to speak, Colonel?”

“What is it?”

“I got no right to another chance, sir. But I’m all right now. I’m okay. I can feel it. I’m okay now.”

J. D. Hooker said, “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down, kid?”

“All right, Corporal,” said Tyreen. “We’ll see.” He caught Saville’s speculative squint. He said to Corporal Smith, “Suppose you climb up front and ride with Sergeant Sun. You know the route.”

“Yes, sir,” Smith said. He climbed outside with grateful alacrity.

Theodore Saville said, “You can’t depend on him, David.”

“What do you want me to do? Shoot him?”

J. D. Hooker said, “He’s dead weight, Colonel.”

Sergeant Nguyen Khang sat at the back of the truck with one hand on the jouncing machine gun. He spoke up: “Once a guy cracks up, you’d have to be out of your cotton-picking gourd to trust him again, sir.”

Hooker turned on him: “Nobody asked you to put in your two cents, peckerhead.”

Khang got his feet under him. It was the first time Tyreen had seen him angry. Tyreen said, “Settle down, both of you.”

Khang said, “Maybe you feel like letting him get away with that, Colonel, but not me.”

Tyreen said, “If I had time, Sergeant, I’d be pleased to let the two of you fight it out of your systems. I haven’t got time.”

Hooker stood bent over beneath the tarp, fixing Khang with a bellicose stare. Theodore Saville pushed him down roughly. “You heard the Colonel. You’ve hocked your stripes already — don’t start fooling with a guardhouse term, Hooker.”

Khang settled back slowly and braced one foot against the machine gun. After a moment he lighted a cigarette and grinned brashly. He looked like a man who did not believe in tomorrow — or if he did, he didn’t care.

Tyreen turned his attention through the forward window. The road was a rutted path scudding across a rock-strewn mountainside. Distant peaks were dark suggestions through the drizzling cold rain. The obscurity of the weather was a blessing, but Tyreen had to fight off irritation with it. His face was glazed and dour. Once he raised his head sharply, thinking he saw a light far ahead, but it did not reappear. The air was layered in misty velvet, and he might have been an island in the midst of a silent, hostile ocean. The truck clattered through a short, high-sided defile, and Theodore Saville said, “Can’t be far now.” A sluggish current of air curled in under the shredded hang of the bullet-torn tarp; it chilled Tyreen’s sweaty skin. He wanted to swallow a quinine capsule, but he put it off. He felt blindfolded by the pressure of the tarpaulin. Feeling crowded, he disliked the feeling with unreasonable impatience. He felt Saville stir, as though scenting imminent trouble, but there was nothing in sight or earshot. The road turned, sidling against timbered hillsides, descending a series of switchbacks into the violet half-light of the rain forest. Every shadow seemed to conceal a threat hiding from discovery. Nguyen Khang’s shadow at the back of the truck was gray and indistinct. Tyreen peered ahead and said abruptly, “Take your posts. I see some houses ahead.”

There was a scrape of movement behind him. He cleared his gun. Seen closer, the jungle huts sat perched on hillsides as if they were about to fall off. Here and there smoke lifted sluggishly through a thatched roof. Theodore Saville peered through a pushed-back corner of the tarp; his steady eyes watched everything, and Tyreen could not escape the conviction that every detail was being indelibly absorbed into the big man’s memory.

The truck came to a slow halt. The morning was deep and still. Sun’s voice and Corporal Smith’s voice ran through it softly, apprehensively. Tyreen spoke from the window. His words sprawled softly and easily: “It’s nothing, just a bunch of poppy farmers crossing the road — I think they’re a little drunked up.” The truck started moving again, and he put down the gun. They passed the village. The Montagnard tribesmen gave as little attention to the army truck as they might have to a buffalo cart.

The smell of the jungle was oppressive. Saville moved close to Tyreen and spoke quietly. “Smith ain’t the only one.”

“Everybody’s scared,” Tyreen said.

“What are you scared of?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re scared to give in, David. Scared to admit it when you get too sick and too beat-up to fight. You used to be the best fighter there was.”

“I still am.”

“No. But you’re scared just the same.”

Tyreen said, “I’ll tell you something, Theodore. Not one of us would have come on this mission if we hadn’t been scared of something.”

Up front, Nhu Van Sun’s foot was reaching for the brake, and Tyreen pitched forward with the abrupt stop. He heard J. D. Hooker’s “Jesus H. Christ!” All Tyreen could see was dark jungle on both sides of the road. No one was in sight. Tyreen flapped back the tarpaulin.

Corporal Smith leaned out of the seat. “Almost missed it,” he said. “Sorry we shook it up, Colonel. This is where we get off the road. End of the line. Chutrang’s just over the ridge, there.”

Tyreen said, “All right. Let’s pull off the road.”

The truck backed and jockeyed and rammed into the rain forest. They stopped after thirty feet of travel, and when he looked back Tyreen could not see the road.

Corporal Smith got down and said, “Hang on a minute, sir.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and spoke rapidly in a singsong tongue, calling toward the south.

Tyreen got out of the truck. “Everybody out.”

A handful of figures appeared in the forest, a knot of men in white Oriental pajamas. Corporal Smith’s talk rattled at them. Saville muttered at Tyreen, “Must be a Montagnard dialect, hey?”

A soft, light voice uttered a command, and the white costumes flapped a little in the rain. One figure moved forward — a woman, slight and supple. Her voice was young. “Les Américains?”

Smith talked quickly, using his hands. Tyreen heard his own name. Saville said, “What the hell?”

The young woman advanced, carrying a carbine. Her face was shaded by a conical hat of woven straw. “I am Lin Thao. It is all right, Colonel. I speak English.”

She did not smile. Tyreen wished he could make out her features. What did a name mean? The rain was slow and cold. Tyreen said, “Corporal.”

“Yes, sir. Her brother’s Ngo Kuy Thao. He runs the village.”

The young woman said, “My brother is dead, Corporal.”

Tyreen heard Smith’s slow intake of breath. Under Lin Thao’s loose blouse the shoulders lifted and fell, a tired gesture. “The Vietminh...”

“Your brother was killed?”

“Eventually.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyreen said. He felt awkward and irritable.

“We found him in the jungle. This morning. He had been beaten. He was returning from Chutrang to tell us about Captain Kreizler.”

Tyreen put his submachine gun over his shoulder on its sling. He scraped a hand across his mouth. “You’ve been expecting us, Miss?”

“Yes. I have come to meet you because there is no one else. The village has not yet elected a new leader. I will tell you what my brother would have told you, and try to do what he would do.”

“Do you think they made your brother talk?”

Saville cleared his throat. The girl’s face was invisible under the hat. Tyreen said, “I’m sorry. We ought to know. If he was made to talk, then they’ll be expecting us.”

“My brother did not talk.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am quite sure, Colonel. My brother was their prisoner twice before, and he did not talk then.”

“All right,” Tyreen said.

The girl turned. “Please follow me.” She walked into the rain forest.

George McKuen sat sleepy-eyed in the pilot’s seat. His cap was tipped back on his head, and the synthetic fur collar of his leather jacket was upturned against his throat. He glanced at his watch and took a sandwich out of a paper bag. The bread had gone stale. He ate slowly.

Mister Shannon said, “What happened then?”

“It was embarrassing, me boy, most embarrassing. I’m ashamed to be admittin’ it. They cut me bloody head off.”

“What?”

“Aye. I had to carry it around under me arm.” McKuen shook his head with an expression of gloom. “It was the first time that happened to me.”

“The first time?”

“Let it be a warning to you, never lose your head.”

“Lieutenant, you’re the absolute limit.”

When McKuen wadded up the empty paper bag it rattled like flames. Mister Shannon uncorked the Thermos flask. “Have some coffee. You can’t win a war without coffee.”

“Who’s winning the war?” McKuen said sourly. He drank and sank back into his seat with a sigh.

Shannon said, “I was thinking about my girl back home. You know, I–Look, I wouldn’t want to create an undue panic, Lieutenant, but we don’t seem to be alone.”

McKuen swiveled around. “Where?”

“Ten o’clock. Over there — see him?”

McKuen bobbed his head back and forth, trying to see between sliding raindrops on the glass. Someone moved vaguely on the fringe of the forest. McKuen muttered, “You think he’s one of the good guys, or one of the bad guys?”

“He’s wearing a white hat.”

“Okay.” McKuen sat a moment, grinding knuckles into his eye sockets. He trembled slightly with chill. The figure in the light-colored straw hat stirred slightly on the edge of the airstrip. “Jesus. It’s cold as a bloody St. Bernard’s nose. Come on, Mister.”

He went back through the fuselage. On the way he collected a pair of folding-stock carbines and handed one to Shannon. McKuen fitted a banana clip into his weapon and jacked a round into the chamber. He touched the door handle. “Brace yourself, Mister. This could be what they call it.”

“Check,” Shannon said, blank-faced.

McKuen swung the heavy door open. He stood aside, one eyebrow cocked. After a moment he said, “Well,” and dropped to one knee in the opening. A hundred feet away the bantam white-hatted figure did not move. McKuen crouched in the door, staring across the distance between them. A long time went by, and finally McKuen said, “Well, what is it we’re supposed to do now, do you think?”

“Beats the shit out of me.”

“Curses,” said McKuen. “Foiled again.”

“What?”

“For the first time in me bloody life I get myself all bloated up to go out in a blaze of glory. And what happens? Nothing. He just stands there and eyeballs at us. And what do you think of that, Mister?”

McKuen cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the silent figure, “I give you good day, sir!”

The man’s hat tipped up; he lifted a weapon in one hand, as if in signal, and wheeled back into the forest.

“That tears it,” McKuen said. He flung his carbine down and jumped after it, and stood with his arms akimbo. He glared at the silent jungle.

Shannon dropped lightly beside him and said, “I don’t know, Lieutenant. If he was friendly he’d have come out, wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe the lad never saw an aeroplane before.”

“Sure. After all the bomb runs the Air Force flew over this area?”

McKuen threw up his hands. “Then you figure it out, Mister.”

“He didn’t understand English.”

“And?”

“Maybe he thought you insulted his sister,” Shannon said with a straight face.

“And maybe if my dear aunt had whiskers she’d be my uncle,” McKuen said. “Maybe maybe maybe. Begorra. Maybe I’ll just belt you one, Mister.”

A retort rose to Shannon’s mouth, but it died there. His hand gripped McKuen’s arm in a grip an ape could not have pried loose. “Lieutenant,” he said. His eyes had gone wide.

McKuen shot around to follow the direction of Mister Shannon’s stare.

“By me grandmother O’Hara,” he breathed.

A thin line of armed figures emerged from the jungle, half the distance down the runway. They were armed, and as McKuen spoke, the leader raised a small weapon. It began to chatter loudly. By reflex, McKuen crouched over his carbine and returned the fire. The Vietminh squad dropped flat, and Shannon yanked at McKuen’s clothes. “Let’s get this plane off the deck, Lieutenant!”

“Pile in.”

McKuen gave Shannon a boost up and turned to look back. The guerrillas were up and running. A spray of bullets whacked into the fuselage above his head. He emptied the automatic carbine toward them, slowing them down; he dropped the carbine and swung himself up into the plane. He hauled the door shut and turned to sprint toward the cockpit. Sight of Shannon brought him up short: Shannon sagged against the far wall straining for breath.

“You got hit,” McKuen said.

“Get us out of here, for Christ’s sake!”

An ellipsis of bullet holes appeared in the cargo door. McKuen clawed up Shannon’s carbine and ran forward into the cockpit; with a single motion he threw the side window open and thrust the carbine snout through. The guerrilla squad was fanned out along the border of trees, firing sporadically and waiting to see how many men hid within the airplane.

McKuen’s carbine spread a burst of fire across the file of Vietnamese. All of them disappeared, tumbling into the trees; he had the feeling he had not hit any of them. He let the carbine stock drop into his lap while he reached for the ignition switches.

Number one cranked with slow, grinding weariness. He kept his head down; his lips were moving. He heard Shannon calling to him: “Okay, Lieutenant.” And he heard the popping of a carbine from back inside the plane — Shannon at a porthole.

Figures seesawed in and out of the trees. There was a lot of shooting. It was obvious the plane would be riddled before he got it moving.

He hardly waited for number one to catch before he triggered number two. A curse escaped his lips. He fired a wild spray of bullets out the window, one-handed. With the engines coughing, he could not hear the Vietminh fire. Bullets punched a line of holes across the windshield; he heard something crack above him. A bold figure darted out of the trees and ran forward, firing a rifle. McKuen rammed his throttles forward and kicked the rudder over. The plane began to wheel slowly around. The propellers blew back a heavy spray of rain. The charging soldier ran under the wing and McKuen was sure he would be sliced to pieces by the spinning propeller. He did not look back; he heeled the plane around without a glance at the instruments and pounded the throttles with the heel of his hand. The cold engines gathered speed slowly.

He heard the chopping of Shannon’s weapon. Shannon moved from one side of the plane to the other as it swung its tail around. Ahead of McKuen the descending lip of the precipice swam into view, faintly visible through the rain. It was a downsloping runway from here. The plane was moving, crawling; over his shoulder he saw the guerrillas break away from the protection of the trees and run forward, shouting and firing. Muscles knotted in his stomach. He leaned forward as if to add his straining energies to the halting acceleration of the aircraft. Number two coughed, and he jerked spasmodically. The old plane gained slow momentum, and sweat burst out in a flood on his face. A bullet glanced off the right-hand window, tracing a long furrow in the glass. He was halfway, now — halfway to the cliff, and the speed indicator hovered at forty miles an hour. His face whitened, and he said over and over again, “Oh Jesus— Oh Jesus— Oh Jesus.”

Little gashes of earth sprayed up in front of the wings — bullets seeking the plane. The tail came up, and a part of his mind wondered with complete abstraction why the wheels had not left the ground. The cold engines were not giving what they could. He changed pitch and flooded the fuel mixture; nothing seemed to work: the gooney bird crawled toward the cliff, bumping solidly along the ground. Sixty and seventy miles and eighty miles an hour. Had bullets chewed into the engines? He pummeled the throttles, bruising his hand. The carbine fell out through the window; he heard it clang when it hit the surface of the wing. Wind sliced at him through the open window and through the punctured windscreen. The wheels scratched along the metal runway. He hauled the wheel back at a sharper angle. “Oh Jesus!”

In a roar of sound the plane pitched over the cliff. He felt the wheels lose contact, felt the plane sag beneath him; he thought calmly, “Okay... okay.” But the high-pitched props cut big holes in the air, and the plane dipped away from the cliff with a heavy graceful swoop. McKuen leveled off twenty feet below the altitude of the rim and made a slow turn to the right to pass between two mountains. He brought the gear up, but he did not hear the right-hand wheels lock under the wing; he continued his turn, banking with the left wing high, and when he looked through the window he saw dim orange flashes at the rim of the cliff, bullets aimed at him from much too far away.

He put the fragile plane into a slow climb and pointed it west by southwest. “Shannon!”

Mister Shannon’s voice replied from right behind his shoulder. “Something leaking out from under number two, Lieutenant. Maybe hydraulic fluid for the landing gear. The wheels didn’t go all the way up.”

McKuen looked around at him. “Are you hit?”

“I think I am.” Shannon slid into his seat. He was still clutching his empty carbine; he put it down with care and fumbled with his jacket. McKuen’s hands spidered over the controls. Airspeed built up to one-forty; altitude seven thousand, then seventy-three hundred — it was all he seemed able to get out of her. He said, “How you makin’ it, Mister?”

When he turned to look, Shannon was slumped in his seat with his eyes shut.

Tyreen gripped the truck tailgate and braced one foot on the bumper. “They’ve had time. Let’s go.”

“Not yet,” said Theodore Saville.

“What?”

Saville shook his head. Silence enveloped them. Sergeant Sun stood by — dark, sensitive, cautious. Something had tickled Theodore Saville’s intuitions. Tyreen saw J. D. Hooker’s eyes reach Saville, full of sullen hatred; he saw the fighting streak along Hooker’s mouth. And Corporal Smith — strain continued to scratch Smith’s nerves; it showed in the broken glitter of his eyes. Only Sergeant Khang seemed unconcerned.

Theodore Saville’s growling voice prowled across the jungle like a stalking cat: “I don’t like it. Something’s missing.”

Ruffled by the sultry silence and his own inability to share Saville’s psychic notions, Tyreen took his foot down and turned his face toward the unseen road, eastward through the rain forest. J. D. Hooker spoke with wicked calm: “Your crystal ball tell you something, Captain?”

“Easy,” Tyreen murmured. “Take it easy.”

The sudden white of Hooker’s cheeks made his sunken eyes seem darker. “I didn’t hire on for voodoo business. What are we sitting here for?”

“We’re playing a hunch,” Sergeant Khang said.

“I don’t get this.”

Hooker’s gaze came around and fastened on Tyreen’s stark features. Sergeant Sun turned frowning toward the trees, taking his submachine gun down from his shoulder, and Tyreen knew he had felt the edge of the same feeling that had touched Saville. Saville’s head bowed seriously. A steady cool breeze flowed through the timber.

Hooker said, “Wait a minute — I hear it. You hear it, Captain?”

Saville lifted his face and then his hand, lying against the truck, stiffened. “I feel it in the ground.”

“Sounds like a Goddamn tank,” said J. D. Hooker.

Tyreen heard nothing but their voices and the rain. He dipped his head toward Sergeant Khang, and Khang went trotting up into the jungle. Saville’s hand closed. “That’s what it is,” he said.

It came to Tyreen after a time of waiting — the unmistakable squealing clatter of a tank. “Coming up from the city,” he said. “We’d have run right into it.”

The tank whined up the steep road, humped onto the flats somewhere nearby out of sight and downshifted. It rumbled nearer, and Tyreen heard the whine of metal grinding on metal, the heavy squeak of steel treads. And Theodore Saville said flatly, “What’s a single tank doing on this particular road right now?”

Hooker said, “The place is swarming with gooks. Somebody tipped them off.”

“Shut up.”

The tank clattered on, going past, going up the road, away. Tyreen discovered his breath pent up in his chest. He let all the air out of his lungs and arched his chest to get wind. He coughed weakly. Sweat was oily along his palms; he wiped them against the sodden thighs of his fatigues and walked around to the front of the truck. “Khang and Sun will ride the seat,” he said. “Move, now.”

J. D. Hooker dropped off the truck clutching his blunt-snouted gun. He stood at the tailgate until Tyreen’s face appeared. “Sergeant Sun spotted something. Have a look.”

“You trust that bastard, Colonel?”

Saville jumped down past Tyreen. “We’ll do this without noise, understand?” Saville’s face was calm and round, but here and there a tight line crossed it. “Leave that thing here.” He put his hand on the muzzle of Hooker’s submachine gun. Hooker’s grip tightened. Saville’s brute strength depressed the barrel, and Hooker let go; Saville passed it to Tyreen and then walked forward beside the truck.

Sergeant Sun said, “I see two men by corner there.”

The whole conversation took place in muted whispers. Saville’s arm lifted and made motions. J. D. Hooker thereupon put his back to the truck and moved away, keeping the truck interposed between himself and the corner where Sun said he had seen men. Hooker walked steadily to the shelter of a sagging stone house and went around it briskly. The North Vietnamese field jacket, taken off a dead man an hour ago, flapped as he ran. He broke into a dogtrot, and his lips lashed back from his teeth; he jerked the pistol from his holster and reversed it in his fist like a short club. His feet rose and fell against the uneven ground. He curled around the second corner of the house, picked a path through creepers and brush, found the far end of the building, and turned slowly past the corner. Probing the mists with eyes and ears and nose, he found nothing. He moved with alert care toward the street. Rain compressed around him. He arrived at the street, having come all the way around the house, and saw nothing except the mass of Captain Saville’s figure by the corner.

Hooker stood a moment regaining his breath. “He never saw nothing. The puking little gook lied in his teeth.”

Saville spoke very quietly. “Put that thing away.” Hooker slipped the automatic into its scabbard. They walked back to the truck, Saville shaking his head and making horizontal motions with his hands. Hooker climbed up. “Wild-goose chase. He never saw nothing.”

“Maybe,” said Tyreen.

Hooker moved forward under the tarp with willful anger clouding his face. He heard Saville settle down and felt the truck begin to move.

Cold and wet, the rain and thin air rushed through the airplane. Engines throbbed unevenly. A heavy fog of condensation clouded the cockpit. McKuen batted at it with a frozen hand; there were mountains in the vicinity, and he was not above the highest of them. He did not look to his right — Shannon’s last cry still echoed through his head, and Shannon had died, quickly, in a single spitting shriek of terror. But in McKuen’s mind it took Shannon a long time to die, at the end of which time McKuen stared out of charcoal-hollow eyes into the opacity of the sky and finally realized that a friend, a comrade, was dead.

It was one thing to maintain courage in the midst of a crowd of fighting men. It was another thing to maintain it alone. There was no one to see the sucking spasms that distorted McKuen’s mouth. He rode in a dying airplane, in a seat beside a dead man, imprisoned in his chair. He could not leave the controls even to move Shannon’s body out of sight — and if he had, it would have served no purpose. Shannon was dead, and it made no matter where his corpse lay.

He told himself, “You’ve got to let him die, McKuen. A soldier’s got to accept the loss of another soldier.” He asked himself, “By the Lord above, why this? Why me?” He found himself humming a tune he did not like, and went on humming it because he was afraid to stop.

“Shannon, you poor ignorant bastard,” he shouted. “Why didn’t you keep your bloody ass down?”

He laughed hysterically: “He’s got thirty percent more cavities, by God!” And his face stiffened in horror. “Jesus — Jesus. What are you talking about? God, forgive me.”

He looked at Shannon. “I didn’t mean it, Mister. I didn’t mean it, for God’s sake. You know me, Mister — I never know when to keep my mouth shut. Shannon...?”

He slapped himself across the side of the face. A downdraft of cold, heavy air made the gooney bird plummet. His stomach turned. Something stood beyond the swirl of rain — a heavier mass. He saw it once, and again, and lost it in the weather; but it was there, dark and solid in the sky, a mountain. He kicked the pedals and banked the wheel; he went into a climbing turn, but the spiral was a feeble one; number two was half-choked, and the gooney bird would not reach for higher altitude. His eyes flashed from the gray obscured sky to the instruments over again. He kicked the throttles up and back, trying to flush the clogged engine clear. The compass was swinging around dizzily. Number two roared with a burst of vigor, and he pulled the wheel into his belly, trying to gain altitude while the balky engine’s enthusiasm lasted. The altimeter needle swayed back and forth across the dial; he had the feeling he was somewhere above seventy-five hundred feet, climbing for eight thousand. It was hard to breathe; the plane’s speed sucked air out of the cockpit through the dotted streaks of bullet holes. He fought his way through a violent fit of trembling and reached under the seat for the Thermos jug of coffee. It made him think about Shannon. He said, “Mister, you were lucky after all. I don’t even know which direction we’re after.” He shook his head slowly. He said, “A fella wishes he’d had the chance to know you better, Mister.” He had not known Shannon well at all; he missed the man terribly. He would have to write to Shannon’s fiancée. He wondered what he could say. The whole world was tied up in a knot of rope and labeled “Classified — not for fiancées.” He uncapped the coffee jug and lifted it to his blue lips.

That was when he heard the crack of ice on the wings.

The sky was cloudy still; there was no sun. Rain was a halfhearted trickle of droplets. The hum of an airplane was just audible, and Saville uttered a brief comment: “Think that’s McKuen?”

Nothing stirred in sight of the garage doorway; the city seemed a grave. There was a thin, distant rattle of gunfire, but it ended quickly. The city’s lights were out, all of them. J. D. Hooker uttered a short, dry laugh. “Captain, don’t worry about the puking flyer. With a thousand guns within a mile of us and we ain’t got a chance in a million of getting out of here.”

Saville said mildly, “Things are better than you think they are, Hooker.”

Corporal Smith sat by the truck. His head dropped back to rest against the tire. Sergeant Sun stood with a restless frown behind Saville and Hooker. Silence thickened, and then they heard the muffled tramp of quiet footsteps coming down the alley.

Tyreen turned into the garage. His mouth was clenched into a grim line. He crouched down, and Sergeant Khang came right behind him. Saville and Hooker and Sun completed the hunkered-down circle of men, and Tyreen spoke:

“It doesn’t look good.”

J. D. Hooker said, “What’d you expect, Colonel? A puking red carpet?”

Tyreen pointed to Sergeant Sun. “Close those doors.”

The light went down and out; they crouched in absolute darkness. “Parking lights,” said Tyreen. He heard someone picking a path across the floor. When the truck lights came on, he was surprised to see Corporal Smith getting out of the truck cab. Smith looked terrified. He came around and sat down directly beneath one of the softly glowing lights.

Tyreen drew a quick diagram on the floor. “This is the compound. Motor-pool buildings up on the hill here.” He ticked off locations on the square: “Barracks, supply sheds, artillery storage, ammunition dump outside here, weapons company set up alongside with mortars and mobile guns, more barracks over here, mess hall and kitchens. The whole east side of the compound looks like offices — headquarters, and things like that. Big parade ground in the middle, and the jail right down here, There’s a little shed inside with some noise coming out of it, probably a diesel generator to power the electric alarm fence. Any questions?”

J. D. Hooker said, “How many gooks we going to have to fight, Colonel?”

“Too many.”

“I’ll hold your coat,” Hooker said.

“We’ll have to divert them. The first job’s to find out where Captain Kreizler is right now. Sergeant Khang, that’s your assignment.”

Khang said, “I suppose I just walk down there and ask, huh?”

The floor was dirt. Tyreen said, “Mix some mud and smear it over the bullet holes in that jacket. You’re a guerrilla officer. A dai-uy in the Vietminh army. Did you find any papers in those clothes?”

“Not much. Guerrillas don’t monkey around much with written orders.” Khang took a small oilskin pouch from one pocket. It was scabbed with dry blood. “His name was Kao. Blood type, height and weight, description, fingerprints, all that jazz. I guess I can pass for him if they don’t take my prints. It doesn’t say anything about his mustache. But suppose I run into somebody that knew the cat?”

“Doubtful,” said Theodore Saville. “Long odds against that.”

“The papers say he came from Na Ranh. That’s twenty miles from here, no more than that.”

“That’s enough, in this jungle,” said Tyreen. “It will take you ten minutes to walk down there. You’ve got thirty-five minutes to get back here.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll move without you,” Tyreen said. “On the run, Sergeant.”

“More power to you,” Khang said, “as the fellow said to the cat on his way to the electric chair.” He walked to the door and lifted a hand. “See you guys around,” he said, and slipped outside.

“Now what?” said Theodore Saville.

Tyreen tried to blink tiredness out of his eyes. He said, “We clean our guns.”

The heat of the oil lamp burned against his face, and Eddie Kreizler sat half alive in the chair. The room moved crazily around him. He tossed his head back, throwing hair back from his eyes; he met the Vietnamese Colonel’s amused glance with unvanquished eyes.

Bruises were stiff all over his body. His nose was crushed against his face. Both arms throbbed, unwelcome parts of him. His right eye was half closed; his scalp was cut open, soft and sticky to the touch of a knuckle-crushed finger. His lips were squashed raw and stinging against his teeth. Dull red flames pulsed, coloring his vision.

The Colonel said, “My methods have been crude, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

“Fuck yourself.” Kreizler could hardly talk.

“Be calm,” the Colonel purred. “My friend, you are letting the misguided blindness of your stupid loyalties lead you around like a trained bear. I would suggest for your consideration that the only way to preserve your own self-respect and freshness of character is to act impulsively. When a man stops to think about whether it is prudent, then he loses his dignity — he loses it to the dictates of caution and public opinion. Like most children, you have been trained to think in certain rigid patterns, and you have a dyspeptic terror of anything out of the ordinary — exactly like a spoiled child’s fear of new foods. I had hoped you were more imaginative.”

The Colonel chuckled politely. “Of course, you feel that I am not part of your world, that I have no business advising you. But the truth is that we all live in the same world. It’s easy enough to despise it, to be sure. But find yourself another one. The trick, my friend, is to make something of life as you find it. It’s no good hiding behind illusions — that’s a treadmill. The values that meant something in America mean nothing here. No one will condemn you for speaking up. I can promise you the greatest comforts. A soft bed, Captain. Medical attention, a pliable nurse perhaps. Good food and drink.”

Kreizler sat in his own pain as if it were excrement. His eyes were not focused. The Colonel leaned forward and slapped his face. “Please pay attention, Captain.” The voice was effeminate, soft, cajoling. “My methods of persuasion will become less subtle as the hours wear on. Do you honestly believe yourself capable of withstanding me?”

Kreizler purposefully concentrated on a haze of swaying recollected visions, colors dimmed by pain. He slumped. The lamp’s dusty shafts of chalk light fell on the Vietnamese Colonel’s complacent face, the uniform meticulously pressed, the black bill of his cap polished with wax, the hollows of the eyes glowing. The Colonel’s high-pitched voice suddenly thrashed at him:

“I lose patience with you, Captain! Resistance will gain you only unbearable pain. You must talk now.”

“Come ahead, then,” Kreizler said drunkenly. “Try me.”

Graven-faced, Sergeant Khang squatted on the hill behind the battalion motor pool, fingering his jaw. The big truck park was almost deserted. A few soldiers moved around near the big repair garage, shifting in aimless patterns. Beyond and below, he had a vista of the garrison compound: drab, low buildings surrounding the muddy parade ground. The city climbed its slopes behind the garrison, sprawling across the hills; that was the way they had come, and the way they would have to leave.

He began to make his way down the mountain. His only weapon was an old Nambu automatic pistol, liberated from the dead North Vietnamese officer whose uniform he wore. He did not lift the Nambu from its brush-scarred leather scabbard. He walked boldly until he stood directly above the parking lot; across the tops of silent trucks he watched the soporific activity around the garage. He dropped onto the tarmac and threaded a path between rows of trucks and halftracks, jeeps and tanks. A vague plan of action took form in his mind. He circled the back of the garage and approached the front with a careless, mild air. Behind him he heard a side door latch open; he glanced around casually.

A stocky lieutenant emerged from the doorway, stiff and correct in a starched uniform. The Lieutenant lifted his hand to salute — an automatic gesture; then his hand became still, and his mouth twisted.

“Nguyen Khang!”

Sergeant Khang’s head rocked back. Panic froze him. He felt the hammer of his pulse; the crazy awareness of one thing seized his attention: it had stopped raining. He stood that way, baffled, and his mind grappled with a search of his memory, trying to recall when the rain had stopped.

The Lieutenant’s pistol came up. “So.”

“Luc Chau,” Khang said. His mouth clapped shut.

“I am.”

“Why do you put the gun on me?”

“Do you think I am a fool?” the Lieutenant demanded. “Where did you get that uniform?”

Sergeant Khang moved with care, turning his body around to face the man. “It is my uniform. I am a—”

“You are a liar,” said Lieutenant Chau. “Take out your pistol and drop it here.”

The Lieutenant walked forward. Nguyen Khang slowly withdrew the Nambu with thumb and forefinger and dropped it in front of him. All his Special Warfare training came back to him in a rush, and suddenly his greatest concern became the uncertainty whether one of the motor-pool soldiers might suddenly appear around the corner. No one was in sight. Lieutenant Chau said, “Colonel Trung will be very interested to see you. He will be pleased with my work.”

“You would sell your mother to Colonel Trung for a pat on the back from him. So Colonel Trung is here still?”

“He is our chief of intelligence.” Lieutenant Chau’s smile was a hard glisten of teeth. He held the gun steady on Khang’s chest while he stooped slowly to pick up the Nambu automatic.

The Lieutenant’s fingers touched the Nambu, and Sergeant Khang’s boot lashed forward. The heavy metal-soled jump boot cracked against Lieutenant Chau’s wrist. The pistol dropped. Chau shot upright; Sergeant Khang gripped the soft bill of the Lieutenant’s fatigue cap and jerked it savagely down over his eyes. Khang drove his bladed hand into Chau’s stomach, and when the man coughed, Khang wheeled behind him and took a precise grip on the back of his neck. It was an academic matter, then, the product of careful training — a few seconds of pressure on the carotid artery, behind the ear, produced immediate unconsciousness and quick death. There was not a sound.

Khang gathered the two pistols, slung the dead man across his back, and made a quick sprint for the nearest parked truck on the lot. He wasted no effort looking behind. If anyone caught sight of him, that would be the end of it. Looking around would not save him.

He dumped Lieutenant Chau into the back of the truck, climbed in, and gave himself a moment to breathe and sweat and calm himself.

He exchanged uniforms with the dead man, replacing Chau’s buttons with the captain’s insignia taken from the guerrilla officer; he emerged from the truck dressed in a fresh-pressed uniform. It was not even damp from the rain.

When he left the truck park, he walked with long strides directly across the compound. He hardly glanced at the wirefenced guardhouse.

McKuen eased the control yoke back. A yard-long chunk of ice broke off the port wing’s leading edge and clanged against some part of the fuselage. The plane dragged wearily against the air; ice, blunting the wings, reduced their lift, and he was burning fuel at a frightening rate. On its rubber mountings the panel of instruments vibrated, blurring the dials. A faint luminescence bloomed through the clouds — the sun trying to break through. He suffered an intense moment of heavy vibration, and then calm, with the engines throbbing in low-pitched struggle. The airspeed needle wavered between a hundred fifteen and a hundred twenty-five. Number two’s head-temperature had gone up fifteen degrees in as many minutes — indication enough that ice had begun to clog the airscoop. His mixtures were far too rich as it was; he dared not increase them. Slicing through the heavy sky, the props were barely visible; the exhausts were faint orange blossoms of light.

The plane lurched and righted itself. In a little while he would have to backfire number two to get rid of the ice in the air intake. He tightened his seat belt until he could feel its steady pressure on his belly. His lips were pressed together too tightly. He peered down through the window, trying to make out the ground, trying to find landmarks; but the ground was fogged in. All he could see was a secondary cloudbank unrolling beneath him.

Mister Shannon had gone stiff in cold death. McKuen’s gaze was expressionless when it fell on the body; he had put the presence of death out of his conscious lexicon.

He found a cigarette in his pocket. It was bent at the middle. He straightened it with great care before he put it between his lips and stretched back in the seat to get his lighter out of a pocket. The lighter flame burst at him like an explosion, batted fiercely around by the crosscurrents of wind buffeting through the cockpit. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke toward the instruments. His face was wholly without feeling, numbed by cold. The plane chattered and smoothed out; the sky seemed subterranean, like a womb. McKuen flew alone through an alien world, his emotions suspended by shock. A sudden grin split his face when he said, “To hell with it. Kicks.”

J. D. Hooker grumbled, “Is this all we got to do — just sit here and grow whiskers?”

Theodore Saville said, “The difference between you and a smart man, Sergeant, is that a smart man knows when to get tough. Relax.”

“Sure... sure.”

The weak glow of the veteran truck’s parking lights threw a dismal light around the inside of the garage. Saville moved over to stand by David Tyreen at the door; looking back at J. D. Hooker, Saville murmured, “The cat’s always dignified until a dog comes along. I’m sorrier than hell I picked Hooker for this job.”

“He’ll hold up his end, when the time comes for it.”

“And after that, he’s expendable. That it?”

“We’re all expendable, Theodore.”

“Jesus. Haven’t you got anything brighter than that to say?”

Tyreen’s face was dark and scored. He sucked on a quinine capsule, trying to work up enough saliva to swallow it. Saville said, “A smart fellow lives on interest. You’re living on your capital, David. You’re burning yourself up.”

“You seem to know a hell of a lot about what a smart man would do.”

“Maybe I’m just smart enough to know when to lay off. I know — not now, not now. After we get Eddie out, then we sleep. Provided we don’t get a Vietminh regiment on our ass. Provided we don’t get slaughtered down there. Provided we get Eddie out. David, what happens if we can’t?”

“You know the orders.”

Saville said, “If I was in command, that’s one order I wouldn’t carry out.”

“That’s why you’re not in command, Theodore.”

Saville shook his head. “You’re pretty young to be a stubborn old fool. I thought the Army got rid of the last of its mules a few years back.”

Tyreen gave a small, rare smile. “Age does have its privileges.”

His tongue touched the poison tooth. He felt sapped by fevers. His body demanded everything he denied it, and he felt as though festering rashes were eating slowly into his flesh. His eyeballs scraped the sockets when he looked around. “What’s the time?”

“Quarter of.”

“Sergeant Khang’s deadline.”

“Give him a few minutes,” Saville said.

“I told him to be back here at eleven forty-five.” Tyreen pushed away from the wall; he forced his body to obey the command to stand steady.

“Saddle up.”

J. D. Hooker said, “How much stuff we going to carry, Colonel?”

“Leave the packs here. We’ll come back for them.”

“Grenades?”

“Everything that makes noise,” Tyreen said. “But not the machine gun. Don’t forget your—”

“Hold on,” Saville said. He made a sharp turn, flattening his back against the door. His voice was low: “I think that’ll be Khang coming back.”

Saville’s gun was ready. The code was nine; when knuckles rapped the door twice, Saville knocked twice in answer, and outside, the door banged five times.

“Okay,” Saville said, and opened the door.

Sergeant Khang walked in and saluted with a dry expression. Saville skidded the door shut. Tyreen said, “Where’d you get that uniform?”

“Ran into an old buddy,” said Nguyen Khang.

J. D. Hooker said, “You slimy bastard. What’ll you bet he—”

No one was paying any attention to him. Hooker trailed off into a grumble.

Tyreen studied the sardonic twist of Nguyen Khang’s features. “What did you find out?”

“Captain Kreizler’s still in interrogation. The interrogation officer’s Colonel Trung. About the meanest son of a bitch in this part of the country, sir, next to you, maybe.”

Saville said, “You’re asking to get your ass chewed, Sergeant.”

“Go on,” Tyreen said mildly.

“I talked to the transportation officer. Gave him a line of crap, told him to deliver a staff car to headquarters at twenty after twelve. I thought we could use it maybe. Okay, Colonel? I told the guy they sent me down to deliver Captain Kreizler and Colonel Trung to Hanoi for questioning by the big Red brass. He swallowed it. Hell, I ought to be a Goddamn movie actor, the way I pulled it off. Should’ve seen me.”

Theodore Saville said, “Looks like you’ve done a good piece of work.”

“Yes, sir,” Khang said; his voice had gone suddenly dry. He said, “You want to know the truth, Captain, I was all set to conk out. Faint right there. Surprised me I didn’t.” He added absently, “It’s stopped raining.”

Tyreen said, “Over here, everybody. We’ll map this out.”

On the sky, ponderous clouds moved slowly, but the rain held off, and the premonition of sunlight was strong. Corporal Smith huddled in the shadow of the big storage tank. His eyes moved fitfully. When he turned his head, his chin trembled. “You about done with that?”

“Relax,” said J. D. Hooker. “Plenty of time, kid.”

“I wonder if they made it. What if we get cut off?”

“For Christ’s sake shut up,” Hooker said. He was bent over, measuring out fuse by inches. He checked his watch and clipped off a precise length of fuse. He tamped it into the set charge with care and scooped gravel over the charge, burying it from sight. “Pick up them ammo boxes.” He popped a wooden match alight on his thumbnail and made sure the fuse was burning properly. It burned smokelessly; in a moment the spark receded into the plastic sheath. There was no odor, no sound.

He turned and lifted the machine gun. “Come on.”

Not far away on a hillside road there was the clatter of a buffalo-drawn cart. The noon chill cut through Corporal Smith’s clothes and stung the tip of his nose. He crabbed along behind Hooker’s crouched running figure; they slipped out through a fresh cut in the fence. Smith fought a moment’s alarm when his pants snagged on the wire. He plunged through, tearing off a patch of cloth. Somewhere on the windless slope an engine chattered into life and roared. Patches of fog covered the higher reaches of the mountain. Smith said, “Wait up.”

“Keep up,” Hooker answered. They ran through a grove of stunted trees and came in sight of a crumbling temple half overgrown by a garden gone wild. Hooker ran across the road and trampled a path choked with creepers. Smith followed him into the temple, and Hooker turned to his right. “Up there.”

“Jesus.”

They went up a precarious curling staircase of wood. The steps sagged low under Hooker’s weight. Smith put his shoulders to the wall and crept up the steps wordlessly, fearfully. Splinters of rotted wood dug into his back. Mildew and dust lay thick in the dark temple. Hooker battered a path through thick cobwebs with the machine gun. “Come on — come on.” They climbed past tier after tier of open pagoda — style windows. Smith felt choked by dust and the smell of rot. The building seemed ready to collapse on him. A thick vine crawled in through an opening; he was sure it was reaching for his ankle. He listened to the hollow sound of his own voice: “You think this is a Cao Dai temple?”

“How in hell do I know? Quit draggin’ your ass.”

They climbed to the top landing, forty feet above ground. Hooker planted the machine gun in the center of the open arc. “Lay out them grenades over here where I can reach them.” He bellied down behind the gun and fed ammunition into it.

Corporal Smith’s lips sagged with pale bitterness. Below in the road a pair of soldiers came in sight, walking unhurriedly, talking. They stopped in front of the temple and exchanged words, and then one of them went on his way. The other turned toward the temple and walked forward until he was out of their sight. Smith held his breath, but the soldier did not come inside the temple. “What’s he doing down there?”

“Taking a post, I guess. Don’t sweat it.”

“He’s right under us!”

“Keep your puking voice down, kid.”

Smith rubbed his face. His cheeks were stained by the tracks of drying sweat. He glanced at Hooker; Hooker’s brutal face was lifted to one side, his features unstirred. Smith watched those cruel, impassive cheeks and wanted to cry out; he wanted the sight of another man’s nerves raw and quivering like his own. A sluggish current of air chilled his skin. His eyes were hot and round. A piece of sky suddenly broke open, shining blue through the clouds. Beyond the looming storage tanks, the mountains buckled up in crooked sawteeth. Smith’s breath bubbled in his throat; he cleared his throat as quietly as he could and tried not to remember where he was. Dust lay in a fine grit on his lips; he licked it off. The slow tramp of heels sounded below — the sentry walking to and fro. Cars and wagons made faint noises in the city, not far away. A jeep’s fog lights stabbed around the bend and rushed forward along the road, turned another bend, and were gone. The sentry became a dark suggestion moving through the foliage. Smith’s heart pounded in his ears. “How long now?” he whispered.

“Ten, fifteen minutes. Will you for Christ’s sake shut up?”

Tyreen saw himself as he was: too gaunted, too afraid, half consumed by disease and disappointment. But he had the capacity to recall himself as he had been in the fancies of his adolescence — a tall man, lean, saturnine, quiet, brave, wise, and supremely sure of himself. He tried to understand why it had not turned out that way. Sick with pain and exhaustion, he sat in the shadow of the big tank and gave very little attention to the sound of the car driving slowly through the truck park. Then Saville kicked him gently. “That’s our boys. Come on, David — come on.”

Tyreen pushed himself up onto his feet. Awareness of the present rushed back to him. He turned to face down the row of half-tracks.

A small command car, a Moskvitch, turned into the aisle of pavement and drove slowly forward. Tyreen recognized Sergeant Khang, in his captain’s uniform, at the wheel. Sergeant Sun sat beside him. When the car drew up, Sun opened the door and stepped out.

Khang said, “Are we late? The bastards made me sign a requisition for the car.”

“There’s time,” Tyreen said.

“Okay, Colonel. How’re we going to work this?”

Tyreen said, “You get in back with me. Captain Saville and I are your prisoners. Sergeant Sun will drive us up to headquarters, and you’ll take us into the building at gunp — oint. If anybody tries to stop you, tell them your orders are to deliver us personally to Colonel Trung.”

Sergeant Sun tugged his cap down and licked his lips. Khang said, “What about your pistols, Colonel?”

“You’ll have to take those.” Tyreen handed his sidearm to Khang. Sergeant Sun held out his hand and accepted Theodore Saville’s pistol. Khang waved the automatic at Tyreen and grinned. “Okay, Colonel. I got to admit there’s been times today when I wanted a chance to wave a gun at you.”

“Careful where you point that thing,” Saville growled.

Sergeant Khang turned to walk around the car; Saville opened the front door to slide in; and Sergeant Sun, lifting Saville’s pistol in his fist, said sharply, “Stop now.”

Saville had his head bowed in the car doorway. He backed out. “What the hell?”

Sun had his pistol trained on Nguyen Khang. He barked rapidly at Khang in Vietnamese, and slowly Khang let the gun fall from his hand. On Sun’s command, he kicked it away from him. Sun’s face was broken out in sweat. Tyreen said, “So that’s the way it is.”

Nhu Van Sun said in Vietnamese, “It is a fine coup for me to bring all of you to Colonel Trung. It is a fine coup. You will get in the front of the car now, all three. I will ride in the back. The fat Captain will drive.” Sun showed his teeth. “It would have been wise to listen to the Sergeant Hooker, no?”

Saville said, “Why’d you wait so long before you jumped us?”

“It was most easy to allow you to deliver yourselves to Chutrang, Captain. Now please do not delay me more. Get in the car.”

Sun backed into the open rear door of the car and held his pistol across the window sash. “Slowly, please. And please remember that the sound of one shot from here will bring many soldiers. You cannot escape now. You — the traitor to the people — you will get in first. Di di!”

Khang got into the car and slid across the seat. Tyreen squeezed in beside him. He felt the nearness of Sun’s pistol to the back of his neck. The back door stood open. Saville started to get into the driver’s seat, but as he turned, his hand came up from waist level and suddenly the great slab of his palm was jammed against the muzzle of Sun’s pistol. Sun’s finger contracted on the trigger, but the pressure of Saville’s powerful grip against the recoil spring kept the weapon from exploding. Saville’s left hand whipped across to crack Sun’s wrist. Sun struggled grimly, his hand caught in the door. Saville’s hand turned white against the pistol; and Tyreen, reaching across the back of the seat, lodged both thumbs against the Vietnamese’s throat.

Saville hooked back the pistol’s hammer with his left hand and wrenched it out of Sun’s flailing grip. Sergeant Khang was twisting in his seat, reaching for Sun’s free arm that tugged at Tyreen’s hand. It was not needed. The pressure of Tyreen’s hands killed the man in a few silent seconds.

Tyreen pulled his hands away and sagged in the seat, staring. Theodore Saville said something, a sour grunt. Saville tugged Nhu Van Sun out of the car. He looked both ways and rolled the body beneath the belly of the big tank.

Sweat poured from Tyreen’s face. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”

Saville had hands like hams. They trembled, and Saville squeezed them together, licking his lips and not looking at anyone. Tyreen slid across behind the wheel, drained and sick. “Sergeant Khang.”

Khang did not answer, but his face came around. Tyreen said, “Get into the car.”

Khang said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” His mouth worked. “Listen — about him.” His head turned on bulging neck tendons.

Tyreen saw the frenzied glitter of his eyes. “All right. Don’t talk about it. It’s all been said.”

“It has?” When Khang was not laughing, he had a sad face. His eyes were fierce black against the skin.

Tyreen said angrily, “The cards are dealt. Play your hand, Sergeant, or throw it in.”

“I want it clear,” Khang said. “Or do you vote like Hooker?”

Khang was asking for trust. Tyreen watched, his face like a blue-steel hatchet, slightly rusty. He said, “Nobody’s going to sell you into Egypt, Sergeant.”

The pistol lay cocked on the running board. Tyreen reached for it. Khang’s eyes watched, cynical and distrusting. Tyreen handed the pistol to him, butt first. When Khang took the weapon, Tyreen said, “He was just obeying orders, Sergeant. Just like you and me.”

Khang climbed into the back of the car, moving arthritically. “You got to be kidding, Colonel.”

“Why?”

Dismally, Tyreen turned the key in the ignition. The engine popped and began to hum. Theodore Saville climbed in and slammed the door more loudly than he had to.

The car began to roll forward. Tyreen’s hands slipped on the wheel. The phenomenon of death made its impact once, and the impact stayed locked in forever. He thought, you could only witness a single death in a lifetime. A man only became a killer once. See one, and you’d seen them all.

Corporal Luther Smith crawled to his feet and touched his head. He had cut his temple. The explosion had thrown him halfway across the tower landing. Shards of glass littered the wooden platform but, strangely, the stained rear window by Smith’s post was unscratched. A shattered porcelain figurine lay scattered across the platform. J. D. Hooker was resetting his machine gun in the tower opening. Smith heard the great roaring of flames; from his post he could not see the fire, but the platform was awash with red brilliance, and he felt the heat of it against his cheeks. Hooker was talking, complimenting himself on the expert job of demolition. Smith heard a shout, and when he saw Hooker’s swift glance, touching him and moving on, he knew it had been his own voice. His white hand would not relax its grip on the submachine gun. For a moment he fought a grim, quiet contest with his hand, but it was useless — his hand would not obey. And so when Hooker said a second time, “Open that damned window, kid,” he held the gun up in both hands and smashed the butt through the window.

Flame glanced off glass shreds, tumbling and dancing through a three-story drop to the overgrown garden beneath. And Smith saw two men down there in khaki with brown-black rifles, staring up at him from under the brims of their helmets: two men in the crimson garden with one side of their bodies made bloody by the rage of the great blaze.

Smith stared back at them. No one made a hostile move; everything was frozen. He started and moved like a slow machine, raking blades and bits of glass from the edges of the casement with the butt of the gun. He backed away from the window, and just before he lost sight of them, he saw one of the soldiers raise his rifle and aim.

Smith spoke incoherently across the high platform. He did not follow what his lips said. Hooker’s back was to him; Hooker did not turn. The upcoming bullet smashed a harmless course through the empty window, cut a splinter from the ornate ceiling, and left a hole through which Smith saw a spot of red light. Smoke crept into the place, thin but lung-tickling. Hooker was hunched over the machine gun, training it on the road.

Smith shrank back. The eye in the ceiling, put there by the bullet, stared at him. A voice came up from the garden, demanding surrender. Hooker’s gun began to bang, driving soldiers back down the road.

A long brown rat came out of a corner and blinked at Smith and scuttled back into the shadows. A small sound came out of Smith’s throat.

“Shut up,” Hooker said, in a mild abstracted tone. He fired a burst into the road.

The rat’s red eyes glowed. Smith turned his gun on the rat. The concentrated fire smashed the rat to pulp against the corner.

“You Goddamn stupid idiot! What the hell you shooting at?”

Smith’s fingers loosened. “I guess I spooked.” His voice was even and controlled. He set the gun down, leaning the muzzle against the wall. The dead rat was splashed over a square yard of wood. Smith wiped his face with his handkerchief. He watched the fur and flesh of the mangled rat until a gunshot drove a path up through the window and put a second eye in the ceiling. Smith picked up the gun and went back to the window, standing beside it and moving his face cautiously until he could see down into the garden.

Now there were four of them, standing foolishly in a group talking among themselves. “Why don’t they take cover?”

Hooker said, “They would, if you took a shot at them.”

“Come over here a minute. Let’s finish them off.”

“Why not?”

Hooker came over, taking his submachine gun down off his back. He put his back to the wall immediately across from the window. For a moment Smith heard his own breathing above the noise of the flames. Dry, hot smoke scraped his face. Hooker said, “A Goddamn shooting gallery.”

“I wonder why they don’t take cover?”

Smith put the gun to his shoulder, cheek to stock — no, the recoil would bruise his cheek; he lifted his head. Barrel up, now, and allow for shooting downhill. The targets were large and motionless, talking. All his muscles were relaxed; he felt good. “Now, Hooker?”

“Now.”

The battering of the two guns sounded out of tune. The barrel became hot against his fingers, and he moved his grip to the forestock and fired a second burst. The four soldiers fell against each other like a collapsing tent. One of them jerked in spasmic dance. They fell in a single inseparable mass. Smith was thinking about the splattered rat.

His gun ran out of ammunition. He took it down and put his last loaded magazine into it. Down in the garden, the arms and legs moved now and then. A helmet on a bush showed a dark moist spot exactly in the center.

Smith said, “How could anybody be so Goddamn stupid?”

Hooker went back across the platform to his machine gun. A big fire truck was coming up the road, and Hooker fired a belt of ammunition into the tires. The truck scraped to a stop, blocking the road.

“Okay,” Hooker said. “Time to get out of here.” He was laughing.

They ran down the treacherous stairs, leaving the machine gun behind. Smith almost lost his balance. Concussion from the exploding gasoline storage tanks had knocked down part of the lower wall and the narrow stair; they had to jump the last eight feet to the floor.

They went back through the cobwebs to the rear of the pagoda and slipped out into the garden. Hooker said, “Wait a minute. Somebody coming.”

“I don’t hear—”

Hooker slapped his mouth gently. Smith closed it; his lips stung. Hooker turned his gun toward the corner. A man’s shape broke into view, running. Hooker fired a short burst. The soldier staggered, dropped his rifle, and stumbled back around the corner.

“Crap,” said Hooker. “Come on.”

Sirens advanced not far away. Smith ran along behind Hooker, leaping tangled vines. They plunged through the back of the garden and ran down a little dirt path, still puddled with mud. Wind plunged in and out of Smith’s chest. They reached the head of a little street.

The hill blocked sight of the fire, but the clouds were red. The glow glistened on the moist cobblestones. Smith dropped to his knees and could not stand up. He could not make his voice cry out.

Half a block ahead, Hooker looked back over his shoulder. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Smith could not shake his head. He stared open-mouthed at Hooker. Hooker’s face went out of focus. Smith dropped his gun, and Hooker, a vague drifting outline, ran back to him through a clinging mist. Hooker’s big meaty hand came out of it and smote Smith across the face like the flat of an ax against a side of beef. The slap tilted Smith’s precious equilibrium — he fell against the soft mattress of the street. He saw the round toes of Hooker’s combat boots, sideways to the plane of his vision.

He saw the remains of the dead rat in the corner of the room. It scuttled forward; its eyes glowed. He could feel the rat’s hot breath.

Strange air pressures built up in the clouded skies; at this particular instant McKuen’s altimeter read twelve thousand feet. “Ridiculous,” McKuen said. “Mister, we have been banging around up here for more than an hour, and I’d just like you to be knowin’ that we have twelve minutes’ fuel in the tanks and I dinna ken where the bloody hell we are, if you’ll be kind enough to pardon me Scottish. We should have been over the briny Goddamn deep twenty minutes ago, if the compass is anywhere near right. But we just passed a bloody mountain peak. Either we have been fighting a forty-mile-an-hour head wind or we are flying at ninety-five miles an hour, which perhaps you know is quite improbable, not to say bloody impossible.”

After a moment’s droning silence, McKuen said, “Of course, being dead, Mister Shannon cannot well be expected to reply. Mister, you are Goddamn bloody well lucky.”

He had been talking steadily for a quarter of an hour.

“To hell with it,” he said. “By your leave, Mister, we’ll be going down for a look.”

The gooney bird vibrated intensely; the panel bottomed on its rubber mountings. McKuen pushed the control yoke forward. He set his teeth. His lips were insensitive; his hands were chilled to unfeeling. The artificial horizon indicator had rolled over on its back and expired. The head temperatures of both engines continued to climb; and another backfire might stall them. According to the altimeter, updrafts and downdrafts were plunging the plane up and down at the rate of several thousand feet a second. McKuen snorted. Even the seat of his pants gave him no help; he might have been upside-down. Looking through the bullet-cracked windows did no good — a solid gray mat of cloud pressed against the glass like an enormous nose. McKuen’s face lengthened dismally. He fumbled for a cigarette and lighted it, and smoke idled around the cockpit, fogging about his head, caught there in crosscurrents. The dead springs of the seat jarred his buttocks. A loose piece of wire hung from overhead, swinging crazily. The wing temps had warmed up, but now and then a loose chunk of ice broke off and banged against the plane. Crazy spasms ran through all his muscles. Beads of water scraped along the glass — and at least that was better than frost. He crushed out the cigarette in the rusty ashtray; he had hardly taken two drags. Through the window he could only make out the vague dark outline of the wing, the ghostly red exhaust of number two. The altimeter settled at sixty-eight hundred feet.

“Where’s the bottom of this puking-ass cloud?” He was sure to fly into a mountain. Back in the fuselage a loose bolt complained with an insistent rattle. “It will be kicks, Mister, to fly around up here until we run out of bloody petrol. Six or seven minutes, Mister. That’s all. McKuen, you smoke too Goddamn much. It will take two years off your life.”

He straightened out the crumpled cigarette and lighted it again. “I feel like the cheese in a sandwich.” After a moment he said, “Pretty soon somebody’s teeth will bite into it, what?”

The temp gauge went down to thirty-two, but that was not yet quite cold enough to ice up the wings again. He throttled back, seeking an added few seconds of fuel. There wasn’t much choice left. He checked his parachute harness.

“Like jumping onto a yogi’s bed of nails,” he said. “Mister, I’ll tell you one thing straight. If I get out of this, I will spend the rest of my life at sea level on my belly. I will never so much as go up in an elevator. What’s that, Mister? What do you mean, don’t I like to fly?”

He said more quietly, “I like flying the way an alcoholic likes whisky, Mister. That’s how I like flying.”

He pushed the yoke forward and tipped the plane down. His mouth became a longer and thinner line. “Mister, there has got to be a break in this stuff.” He banked around. The plane rattled, and number two began to choke and cough. He reached for the mixture controls, but by the time he moved them, number two had packed up. It feathered for a moment and stopped.

“Ah,” he said. He fed more fuel to number one and kicked his rudder over to compensate for the uneven pull. He cursed the useless artificial horizon. A loose engine mount on number one threatened to shake the plane to pieces.

It bucked and halted, jerked and faltered, pitched and swung. The wheel trembled violently, bruising his hands. He cursed, and flew into a ragged wide circle of open sky.

When he looked down, he could count the stones on a mountain peak under the left wing.

“No shit?” was all he could think to say.

Sudden sweat ran down his face. The mountainside fell away below him, and he saw a tortured valley running away underneath toward a high cleft peak. The plane chugged and canted over to one side, limping. “Wait a minute, Mister,” said McKuen. His numb hands pawed and fumbled at the chart. “Wait a minute. That’s it, Mister — the bloody Sang Chu gorge. How in hell did I get down here? Must be twenty miles off our course.”

The plane glided forward, one engine turning over, losing altitude slowly. Sunlight splashed the mountains. Six or seven miles to the gorge. At two miles a minute or less, where was he going?

A few hundred feet beneath him, the black jungle top of a hill loomed and swept past. McKuen spoke calmly:

“Hallelujah, Mister. We are going to knock down a bloody bridge.”

The airplane dinned a raucous score of noises against him. He threw the ends of his seat belt aside. “We need a bit of altitude,” he said. He pushed the throttle full forward and twisted the mixture controls. He trimmed his flaps and elevators. The head temperature on number one climbed into the red zone. He laughed at the gauge. “Burn yourself to bloody charcoal. But dear God get me up! Give me three precious beautiful Goddamn minutes of power!”

He needed a few hundred feet more — perhaps five hundred feet. He had to clear the jungle ridge; he had to fly into the gorge. He would be coming up from under. He would be flying past treetops. He had to pull the plane up into the air by the brawn of his arms, four hundred or five hundred feet up from the trees on the sides of the gorge.

“Dear, dear God!”

He changed the pitch of the propeller. He kicked the rudder over and tacked back and forth as if the gooney bird were a sailboat. The fuel needle bumped its ledge and lay at bottom. Number one roared beautifully through the sunlit sky.

The right wing whipped high. He fought it down with the wheel. He pointed his nose at the cliff ahead and finished the turn, swinging upward into the gorge. He had to stand on the left wing to break past the rock. The airspeed needle wound upward and downward without provocation. McKuen smashed the submachine gun into his port window, breaking the glass out. The full force of the wind hit him in the face. The cliffs rushed toward him. He banked left. The dark green line of the Sang Chu ran forward winding out of sight. He had cliffs on both sides of him; they seemed close enough to brush the wingtips. The top was out of sight overhead. He bolted into a turn, oversteered and executed an S-turn to avoid the far wall; and above him, ahead of him, he saw the glint of sunlight on the ironwork of the great bridge.

The bridge came down toward him, a mile and then less than a mile. “Up — up!” He reached out and yanked Mister Shannon’s coat open; he jerked Shannon’s dogtags off and locked them in his fist. “The very best to you, Mister.”

Flaps whined down. The bridge came closer and closer; number one chugged through the thick air; rock walls leaped crazily past his wings. McKuen pulled the wheel back and draped both of Mister Shannon’s dead arms over the right-hand wheel to hold it back. He kicked the throttles. “Please,” he whispered against the roar of the wind and the pound of the engine. He twisted his shoulders and thrust himself through the smashed-out window.

He had an instant’s glimpse of men on the bridge, turning to face the plane with awe. The bridge rushed down toward the struggling gooney bird. It was tilted far over on the left wing, starting to spin forward. The nose was aimed straight at the center of the bridge span. The wind gripped McKuen. He put one foot on the sill. The wind sucked him out. Out and back into the air: he saw the gooney bird’s rudder flash by. He yanked the ripcord.

The drop — a few hundred feet. He did not know whether his chute would have time. He fell upside-down, turning through the air. The walls, the jungle, and the sky pirouetted. The whole world was filled with the spark and roar of the number one engine. Just beyond the high arc of the bridge was a long bend in the walls; the plane seemed to curve toward the near cliff. McKuen twisted his head to see.

Number one broke and caught, broke again. There was a split second’s absolute silence, cut in half by the scream of a man on the bridge; the airplane, without power, began to nose over. A quarter of a mile from the bridge, falling through space, McKuen saw the plane rush silently against the center span. The plane’s flight was a smooth curve, and abruptly it broke. The nose went down: the tail, flipping up like a marlin’s, ripped into the bridge. McKuen saw one of the tail surfaces, sheared off, fly over the top of the bridge as if catapulted. The sound wave reached him, a tearing of shrieking metal. The amputated fuselage spun hard against the cliff beyond the bridge. He saw the gooney bird break apart, one wing caroming across the chasm. The rudder plane swung from a wire crossbrace on the bridge, banging against the bridge bed.

And the bridge held firm.

There was a racket of falling metal. McKuen’s chute sprang open. He saw jungle rushing upward. There was a sudden jolt. The silk billowed out overhead. He heard a crack of steel — the broken rudder plane fell away from the bridge. He had a distinct image of the bridge, crippled but intact, its span dented and buckled, but unbroken. The rudder plane fell spinning.

McKuen dangled from the shroud lines, swinging from one end of an arc to the other; he swung across once, reached the apex of the swing, and then the black-green jungle whipped up.

Branches and limbs beat against him. His head rocked back; his shins stung. He plummeted through leaves, breaking off branches, bruising every inch of his body. The harness jerked him up, stopping his fall; he hung twenty feet above the ground.

He caught his breath. He heard a continuing distant rattle of crashing metal. The pieces of the airplane were coming down the cliffs, bouncing from rock to rock. He said, “You got to be kidding. How come my neck isn’t broke? You got to be kidding. You got to be.”

He swung himself back and forth like a boy on a swing. He got a grip on the twisted trunk of the big tree and lodged himself there in a groined limb, getting out of the shroud harness. Sharp pains burned in every part of him. His kneecap felt paralyzed by pain. Both hands were bleeding. “Mother of God,” he murmured. He sat in the angle of the tree limb and cried.

He climbed down into the undergrowth. He pulled out his shirttail and cut a long ragged cloth from his undershirt; he tore it in two and wrapped the cloth around his hands. He thought, “What in God’s name came over me? What in hell am I trying to do flying airplanes into bridges? McKuen is off his bloody skull.”

He stood up straight and felt the forty-five automatic in its holster. “They saw me come down,” he said quietly. “All right. So how in the hell am I going to get out of this?”

He pushed into the steam-misty jungle. Shannon’s dogtags were tangled around his left wrist.

David Tyreen slid the garage door shut. “Headlights.” He heard someone climb into the truck; there was a squeak of springs. Switches clicked. No light came on. He stood in the dark and heard Sergeant Khang speak:

“Snafu, Colonel. I guess the damned battery’s gone dead on us.”

“Bitching,” said J. D. Hooker.

Tyreen struck a match and moved around the garage, cupping the small flame. “No lamp bulb in the light socket.” The match burned his fingers, and he struck a new one. He found an oil lamp and picked it up. It held no oil.

Theodore Saville said, “We’ll have to give the truck a push to get it started.”

“Sure,” said Nguyen Khang. “Right down the middle of Main Street, hey, Captain?”

Saville was kneeling by Captain Kreizler on the floor. Tyreen’s match went out. He heard Saville talk softly: “How you making it, Eddie?” Kreizler did not reply.

Tyreen said, “I’ve got to talk to him, Theodore.”

“Do you want me to slap his face, or what?”

“Let me know as soon as he starts to come around.”

A gray faint line of light showed under the door. Tyreen’s eye began to adjust to it. J. D. Hooker was complaining: “What you figure to do now, Colonel? Sit here and wait for the gooks to surround the place?”

“Relax, Sergeant. Nobody knows we’re here.”

“Nobody but that gook dame. Who says she won’t spill the beans to the comrades?”

“She won’t,” said Nguyen Khang.

“Anybody ask you, peckerhead?”

“Hooker, by God, I’ve had just about—”

Saville said, “Shut up, God damn it.”

Tyreen went around lighting matches. The place was a repair garage; perhaps there were batteries about, or a battery-charging machine. But he found nothing. The place had been stripped — by vandals, or by the government. A few tools lay haphazardly on the floor, rusty beyond use. Pools of grease puddled the uneven surface. Tyreen blew out the match. There was just enough light to move around. He said, “We’ve got to get Eddie out of here and get back to that bridge. We can’t do it on foot.”

Saville said, “Maybe we ought to get back to that staff car we left back there.”

“That car’s hot, Captain,” Sergeant Khang said. “Real hot. Like a nympho’s pants. We need something clean, like an oxcart or something. A tank, maybe, hey?”

Khang chuckled and added, “Don’t anybody move too fast — I bruise easy.”

Saville came across the room and spoke softly to Tyreen. “Maybe we ought to curl up and get some sleep. You need it, God knows. So do the rest of us, for that matter.”

“Think we can run that radio from in here?”

“I don’t know. We’ll need someplace to run up the antenna.”

“There’s a potbellied stove over in the corner.”

J. D. Hooker hissed across the floor: “Company.”

After a while Tyreen heard the rattle of a vehicle, the chug of an engine with a faulty muffler, and the crunch of slow-moving tires. A moth flipped by his face, brushing him, making him recoil. The rumble of wheels grew louder and stopped, quite close by; the engine ran a moment longer and was switched off; soft voices ran through the air. Boots tramped the wet pavement outside. Tyreen heard the thud of a heavy object being dropped. He moved carefully to the door and began to pull very slowly at the clumsy hasp. He made a slit wide enough for his eye to peer through. Saville was at his shoulder. Tyreen’s fingers tightened against the door. He saw the heavy outline of a jeep, and just beyond it a machine gun on its low tripod. Two men threw wooden horses across the narrow street; a third man crouched by the gun; a fourth waited beside the jeep with a steel helmet on his head and an automatic carbine across the bend of his elbow, leaning back, lighting a cigarette, laughing quietly at something said by one of the others.

Tyreen pushed the door shut silently and latched the hasp. He went back and spoke in a monotone. “Roadblock. I suppose they’re setting them up all over the city, trying to snare us. It’s about thirty feet down from the door.”

Khang said, “And no back door to this joint.”

Saville said, “We could wait them out.”

J. D. Hooker said, “We could blow them up with a couple grenades.”

“Sure,” Khang jeered, “and bring a whole Goddamn platoon down on us before we got two blocks away.”

Saville said, “What about it, David? Eddie’s in no condition to move, anyway. I’ll stand guard. The rest of you sack out a few hours. Maybe they’ll move the roadblock after that. They won’t wait forever, if we don’t show up.”

Tyreen said, “It’s too risky. They’ll be starting a house-to-house search pretty soon, if they haven’t already. If we can steal that jeep and those fresh uniforms, it might give us a break. But we’ve got to do it without noise:”

Khang said, “Hooker can blow on them and knock them down with his Goddamned breath.”

Hooker’s feet scraped the ground. “You slimy little bastard.”

Saville said, “Cut it out, damn it.”

“Then keep this puking peckerhead off my back, Captain.”

Khang said bitterly, “We get all the breaks, don’t we?”

Saville said, “We’re still alive. Which is more than I’d have bet on this morning.”

“Maybe you got something there, Captain.”

Saville said, “You hear that laugh? That’s the laugh of a man holding a Goddamn gun. Sure of himself — but take that damned gun away, and he won’t laugh so loud.”

Khang said, “They’re telling dirty jokes.”

“Sure.”

Outside, the soldiers’ voices rose and fell. Tyreen said, “What’s that?”

Khang moved toward the door. He listened a moment. “They’ve stopped somebody on the street — they’re questioning him... Now they’re letting him pass.”

The scent of motor grease was thick. Tyreen said, “We’re missing something. Theodore?”

“Beats me.”

Someone started to mutter. Tyreen cruised across the room and knelt by Eddie Kreizler. Saville settled by him. Kreizler’s talk was unintelligible. “Out of his head,” Saville said.

“Quiet him down.”

“I’ll give him a Seconal injection.”

Tyreen moved aside. There was a way. There was something obvious that he had missed. He looked around, peering into deep shadows. One of the soldiers whooped outside. Tyreen made inventory of everything in the room. The greasing pit, the truck, the rusty tools, the old potbellied wood stove, the radio, the demolition equipment, the grenades, the submachine guns.

He stopped in his tracks. “Back up,” he muttered. “The stove.”

He went over to it and struck a match and threw his head back. The stove had a metal stovepipe going up to the roof, an old black metal flue with several loose seams.

“Theodore.”

Saville came around behind the truck. Tyreen’s glance traveled up the stovepipe to the ceiling. “Hole in the roof,” he said.

A wooden square covered the hole; the chimney went up through a circular cut. “We can lift that wood off.”

“It’ll be a tight fit, especially for me.”

“You’ll make it, Theodore.”

“Sure I will.”

“We’ll have to get the stovepipe down without making a racket.”

“That’ll be ticklish, David. I can imagine what that thing would sound like, falling down.”

“A dogfight in an alley full of garbage cans.”

Saville chuckled. Tyreen shook the match out. “Everybody over here, now.”

It was a wild journey.

The Chinese jeep’s canvas top and doors were spattered with mud; the only visibility was through a single arc of wiper-cleared glass. It was hard to see out, but no one could see in. Saville and the girl and Hooker sat squashed together, holding Eddie Kreizler across their laps. Sergeant Khang, in his North Vietnamese uniform, sat in the passenger seat.

Tyreen pressed the clutch and said, “The damned gearshifts are never where you expect them to be.” They had to cross the length of Chutrang, and the city was littered with roadblocks. He put the jeep into the head of the boulevard. It bucked and swayed, battering all his hurts; it made a red haze swim before his eyes; it made him blink back tears of pain and fatigue and impatient, edgy rage. Walls of yellow stone and cracking stucco lurched by. He almost collided with a buffalo-drawn wagon. Through it all, he felt the unreasoning push of time driving forward. His face was pallid and wet, and he could not put out of his head the image of the dying red cast of the eyes of the soldier whose back he had knifed.

He swung the jeep into a side street and squinted ahead. The half-mile of visible pavement seemed clear of roadblocks. He rammed forward, slipping wildly around a delivery van parked in the street and trusting pedestrians to dodge out of his path. The street lay cluttered with obstacles — motor scooters, parked vehicles, ox-drawn equipment, an enormous ancient tractor-trailer rig. After eight or nine blocks he judged he had been on the street long enough. He turned off, narrowly avoiding a crash with a farmer’s cart.

The jeep jockeyed in and out of alleys and short streets. Rounding a corner, he felt the pull of his arm and shoulder muscles; fifty feet ahead of him he saw a line of sawhorses across the road, two riflemen, and a machine gun. “Sergeant.”

“Gung ho, Skipper.”

Tyreen slowed smoothly. Before the jeep stopped, Khang was half out of the door, hanging onto the windshield and spitting fast, hard talk at the soldiers. The corporal in charge made a ragged salute and shoulder-slung his rifle to swing the sawhorses open. Khang got inside and closed the door. They drove through. Tyreen kept his head down. Khang had swung the steel-frame canvas door open to look back; he said, “They’re talking it over. Giving us a pretty hard look, Colonel. Better give it a little more gas.”

Tyreen downshifted and pressed the accelerator. Khang’s voice lifted sharply. “They don’t like it. They’re swinging that machine gun around. Get off this road, sir!”

Tyreen spun the wheel. The jeep went across the street at a sharp angle, and he cranked it around into the mouth of a cross street. The machine gun started to bang. He heard bullets scream off the walls. He was racing down the narrow street at high speed. The jeep took a corner raggedly; he heard Saville talking in back, but he paid no attention to the big man’s words. He whipped the jeep in and out of intersections, laying a zigzag pattern of travel through the oldest part of the city. Pedestrians scrambled out of the way. They began to climb, going up the eastern hill that would take them out of the city. He glimpsed a roadblock four blocks ahead and turned off. Aching weakness flowed through all his fibers. He roared uphill through a crazy turn into an avenue and found himself not a dozen yards from another roadblock.

Saville barked something. Tyreen rammed the accelerator to the floor. He saw the soldiers’ mouths drop open. The jeep blasted a path into the sawhorses. A splinter of wood came up, clung momentarily to the windshield, and slid away. The impact flung him against the wheel. The wooden horses flew aside, and he heard the clatter of a machine gun flopping in ungainly spin across the pavement. One soldier was rolling out of the way. He wheeled the jeep into a wide square, cut across it with the engine roaring, scattered pedestrians in flight. Bullets whacked into the jeep. He swayed it into a lane and went up the hillside at a precarious pitch, spraying mud out from the wheels.

Saville was squirming around, plugging up a bullet hole in the fuel tank with a wad of cloth. Tyreen shouted above the din:

“Anybody hurt?”

“All present and accounted for,” said Saville.

The clouds were moving fast. A shaft of sunlight came down, hard and unbearably bright. It changed the looming hills into a brass surface that boiled to liquid before his eyes. His vision seemed to darken slowly with spreading poison. One side of the jeep lifted off the street in a curve. Tyreen clenched back his pain and urged the roaring jeep up the hill. He could see Saville’s matter-of-fact face in the chattering mirror. The wheels began to skid around in mud, but then he was onto the main road, flipping over the hilltop, and Chutrang was below them. Tyreen went wheeling past a litter of huts, crossed a narrow plateau and a rock field, and plunged into a series of wicked turns. Sergeant Khang was talking:

“A couple jeeps coming after us, Colonel.”

The girl spoke quickly. Tyreen said, “What?”

Khang said, “She says turn off to the left down here.”

It was a narrow, rutted track, twining into the jungle. Tyreen slid the jeep into it. They rushed breakneck across jagged lifts and drops. Matted treetops shut out the sun. The girl spoke instructions, and Tyreen took a left fork, another left fork, a sharp right turn. At every fork the trail became narrower and rougher. The tires clawed across foot-high roots. Branches scraped the canvas at both sides. The dark speckling of light made everything hard to see. At a tight bend in the road, Tyreen swiveled the jeep hard against a tree. He jammed the shift lever around, hunting for reverse gear. The engine roared and quit.

In the sudden silence Theodore Saville said, “I think we ran out of gas. Must be another puncture down low in the tank someplace.” He got out to have a look. Tyreen stood in the mud rubbing his face. Saville said, “All dried up, David. We’re out of gas.”

Tyreen held up his hand for silence. He was listening for the sound of vehicles in pursuit. “Hooker.”

“Sir?”

“Hear anything behind us?”

“No sir. Not right now.”

“Maybe we lost them,” said Theodore Saville.

Tyreen said, “It won’t take them long to find our tracks in the mud.”

The girl climbed out of the jeep. She had lost her hat. Her dark hair hung tangled over one shoulder. She said, “We could not have driven much farther. The path becomes thin. I will show you the way to the caves.”

Hooker said suspiciously, “What caves?”

“We use them for hiding,” was all she said.

Hooker was in the back seat with Captain Kreizler’s head in his lap. “What about him?”

“We’ll carry him,” Tyreen said. “Let’s go.”

“What about all this demolition equipment, Colonel?”

“We lug that too.”

“Jesus,” said Hooker.

Tyreen’s eyes were lacquered with fever when he lay down. There was a deep, drained ache in his legs. He had a stitch in his ribs from climbing. He hardly noticed the shape of the cavern. It was dry and dark. Sleeplessness surrounded him with a semitransparent glaze; people and objects and voices seemed distant and not altogether in the present. Saville was talking to him: “Eddie’s still knocked out. The Seconal won’t wear off before tonight. He’s got some burns and cuts — we’re patching him up the best we can. What do you figure about that bridge, David?”

Tyreen’s voice was drowsy and slow. “If Eddie talked, they’ll expect us to try again. They’ll have everything within miles zeroed in on that bridge, and they’ll expect a night raid. We’ll hit them tomorrow in daylight.”

“How? From where?”

Tyreen made an understatement: “A tired brain doesn’t plan very well, Theodore. Let’s sleep on it.”

The girl was nearby. He could not see her. He heard the sound of her voice. “Rest well, Colonel.”

He closed his eyes. Her whisper to Saville reached him faintly. “He is ill.”

“Acute fatigue,” Saville judged dispassionately.

Tyreen’s tongue caressed the hollow poison tooth. He lay back, wrapped in coats. There were many things to think about. McKuen and Shannon — what of them? What of Eddie Kreizler? And the bridge on the Sang Chu. But his mind was sapped by lethargy; his spirit had abandoned him.

He fell into a sleep as profound as a drugged coma.

He stepped out of the cave into a jungle clearing washed by moonlight. A dappling of mackerel cloud made patchwork of the sky. He swallowed a quinine capsule and drank deeply from a canteen and set it down. Saville crouched with his back to a boulder. There was not much to see; jungle guarded three sides of the clearing, and the mountainside stood behind them. The girl Lin Thao walked up the slope with a carbine across her arm. Saville said, “You ought to get some more sleep, David.”

“I’ll spell you. Turn in.”

“Hooker can stand guard. You need—”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d quit questioning every order that comes out of my mouth, Theodore.”

Saville got up without a word and stooped to enter the cave.

Tuesday, Tyreen thought. He had four days to limbo. The General would ship him home on the first jet. If I get back.

He sat down and dragged the submachine gun across his lap. The girl was walking back and forth, stopping here and there to turn her head slowly, trying to catch the night’s small sounds on the flats of her eardrums. Her hair was tied back with string. She seemed fierce and proud.

It was a country where the people made child-slaves of orphans; where no one had ever been free; where in four thousand years there had never been a government obeyed by all the people; where the Montagnards hunted gibbons with crossbows and bribed the army with packets of opium. He watched Lin Thao’s lithe movements. She came toward him and knelt down. “You would like a cigarette?”

“Thank you.”

“Be careful, please.”

He hid the match against his chest and blew it out, and cupped the glowing end of the cigarette in his hand. He coughed. “Where did you get this?”

“From a dead soldier.”

“They must make these things out of Ho Chi Minh’s socks.”

She did not laugh. “You are a brave man. Like my brother.”

“You’re thinking he died for his bravery.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“You’re as brave as he was.”

“I must finish his work,” she said.

“Only because you’re brave.”

“It is not the same. I did not wish this. I do not like it. I would like a house and a husband who is a farmer. And no guns.”

“That’s what you’re fighting for, isn’t it?”

“It does not seem right,” she said, “that the strong should fight for the weak. If the strong die in the fight, it is so much more that we lose than if the weak die. My brother was strong, like you — but it only meant that he was so much more likely to die.”

“Everybody dies.”

“That is not what I meant.”

He said, “I don’t know the answer to your question, Lin Thao. Maybe things can be better than they are. We fight because we don’t want our children to have to fight.”

“For some men that is the reason,” she said. “But not for you, Colonel.”

He murmured, “Your eyes see a lot, don’t they?”

“I see your pride, Colonel. It is the same with my brother, and with my cousin who was a Vietcong. He was killed in the south. The cause means nothing. It is pride.”

“Maybe a little more than that. A little better than that.”

“I shall hope for that,” she said.

He pulled her forward and kissed her with no excuse and no apology.

She said, “We are both afraid, then.”

He thought, In case of accident or death, notify... whom? He said, “We’re a little lonely. At least I am.”

The girl turned her face against his chest. Her voice came up to him muffled against the cloth of his blanket. “All the men I have loved are dead. It is good that you do not stay here. Perhaps I would love you.”

“That isn’t what killed them.”

He felt the even rise and fall of her breathing. He did not understand her mystical notions. She made no sense to him; he did not know her. He said angrily, “Do you really think you’re a jinx?”

“A what?”

“The kiss of death. Do you believe your love killed your brother and your cousin and anybody else?”

“Of course I do not,” she said mildly. She added nothing to it.

He wondered what she would look like in a clean high-collared ao-dai. Through her shapeless clothes her body felt taut and hard. She said, “Tomorrow I will take you to the bridge, if that is what you wish.”

“It’s better for you to stay with your people.”

“Yes.”

He said, “We owe you a great deal. There aren’t words to thank you.”

“You have just spoken them,” she said. She uncoiled and got up. Her arm lifted. “That way, you must go over the mountain. When you reach the far side, you will see across the valley to the river Sang Chu and the mountain of the railroad bridge. If you walk slowly, you will need six hours to reach it. There will be many soldiers on the way, and after you reach the bottom of the mountain you must be careful of land mines and traps.”

He stood up. She said, “We are not so very different, you and I. I have many regrets, Colonel. Just now, one most of all.” She gave him a brief smile. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Lin Thao.”

She walked across the clearing. She would reach her village before dawn. He watched her until she disappeared.

He went into the cave and felt his way to the radio kit and took it outside; he read his code book by the glow of his cigarette. He used a telegraph key to transcribe his message onto a miniature tape recorder. After five minutes’ work he attached the recorder to a radio transmitter, connected its batteries, and set a small explosive charge. He took a small packet out of the kit and filled a balloon with helium from a pressure tank no bigger than a pack of cigarettes; he suspended the transmitting apparatus from the balloon and watched it soar away.

The transmitter would broadcast its message in half an hour, with the wind taking it across the jungle valleys; at the end of the broadcast the small charge of detonating cord would explode the mechanism into a thousand pieces.

He sat outside the mouth of the cave with his arms wrapped around his knees. The moon was moving west, and he watched the small balloon diminish into the sky.

McKuen sat in the branch of a tree and listened to the soldiers move through the rain forest. He thought, Odds are I’ll never be seein’ daylight, and he grinned. The soldiers were moving away; they had not found him. But the woods were full of them, and he knew they would be back.

He thought he heard a noise. He held his breath, listening. No sound reached him. Flame burst in his chest; he had to breathe. He turned his head slowly. An earthy scent, dark and damp and cold, issued from the jungle. His lips pursed, and he squinted a little. Suddenly he distinguished something moving, almost directly in front of him and not far off. His breath caught in his throat. There was a dry rustle; there was a tiny metal click. McKuen pointed his service automatic at the moving shadow.

The faintest of moonlight poked down through the treetops. A shaft glanced off the metal of a military helmet or perhaps a gun barrel. The figure moved closer.

McKuen pulled the trigger.

The automatic roared in his fist, knocking his hand up. It seemed louder than it should have been. It made a brief flash of light. The soldier fell down and started to crawl around. Somewhere in the distance, boots started to crash through the undergrowth. McKuen jumped down out of the tree and felt quick pain shoot up his bruised leg from the kneecap. He dragged himself over to the struggling soldier and shot the man in the face.

He squatted frozen during a terrified span of time. The soldier died with a bubbling sound. McKuen took away the man’s submachine gun and ammunition magazines; he spun away in panic and ran blindly through the jungle. His foot caught on an exposed root: he landed belly-flat in the mud, bruising his face. His hands clawed the earth. The chopper was hard and cold, underneath him; he rolled off and got it in his grasp and peered around him with wide eyes.

Voices called querulously back and forth across the night. McKuen rubbed the stubble along his jaw. Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw figures moving through the woods. Paralyzing fear rippled through him, gripping him by the groin. He fingered the cold submachine gun and looked around furtively. What now? Do I sit and wait and win the prize?

“To hell with that,” he muttered. Arrogant temper pressed his lips together. He moved away from the dead man and, abruptly, a remembered deviltry sparkled in his eyes. He exhaled a fluttering gust of air. The jungle hummed with a light wind, and a wicked flame leapt in him. He stabbed his legs into the ground and broke into a wild run.

Up and running, he wondered why he was doing this. He felt like a pinned insect. He dropped flat.

Far to his right a rifle opened up, steadily pounding the air. He could not see its muzzle flame. It did not seem to be directed at him. He got up and ran across an open quagmire of mud and went into the trees like a racing diver. He hit flat on his chest and slid across slimy liquid; he scrambled past a tree and lay with blood pumping red in his eyes and his body heaving. The gunfire stopped. Someone was moving through the jungle, and he looked around until he thought he saw something; he trained the submachine gun on it and held the trigger back.

The gun rocked against him, coughing, and in the blinking flashes he saw a helmeted soldier collapsing a joint at a time in little jerky moments of light like a very old silent moving-picture. And then darkness and silence again.

Hostile bullets broke the night up, seeking him furiously. They rattled around the jungle, cut down a branch overhead, and dropped the branch on him. He huddled with his knees drawn up against his chest, his back to a tree. The guns quieted down, dissatisfied. An insect crawled over the back of his hand. The afterglow of one muzzle’s flame remained in his vision, and he tried to remember exactly where it had been in the woods. He lifted the chopper slowly and aimed it in that direction and held it, not firing, not knowing what he was going to do until someone stepped on something that snapped. The rifle he had looked for fired. McKuen, sitting still, heard a man’s scream of pain. It echoed in his mind and he thought, They’ve killed one of their own men. He heard the scratching of slow movement and realized that the soldier was not dead, but off there bleeding. The soldier’s moan came to McKuen’s ears. He tried to put it away, but after a little while he lifted the chopper’s muzzle half an inch and pressed the trigger. He bit his tongue and swept the jungle with fire until the chopper ran out of bullets.

Like an ejaculation, the burst of fire left him limp and uninterested. Nothing stirred. The chopper was hot under his hand; smoke bit into his nostrils. He released the magazine and replaced it. The dying soldier moaned once, and was still. McKuen became violently sick. He retched into the mud.

Afterward he rolled away from the smell of it, but the smell came with him. He turned to his left and moved slowly through the trees. The gun was heavy, and the air chilled his sweating face. His mouth tasted terrible: dry, sticky, foul, morbid.

He swung behind a tree and searched the dark. Impatience boosted him away. He walked around, putting an unlit cigarette between his teeth. His feet followed each other into the night. He had lost his bearings, but it did not seem to matter. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt.

A small movement halted him. A man — or a branch stirred by wind? His damp clothes clung flat to his back. He shifted his weight. That small sound made the shadowed mass move in his vision, and he saw the fragmentary race of light along the length of a gun barrel. Curious, cautious, the other stepped forward into better light, and McKuen shot him down.

He dropped prone and wriggled to the base of a thick tree, half submerged in mud. Three rifles and an automatic weapon were talking, all of them aimed at the spot where he had stood a moment before. That’s all of them, he thought calmly. Four men. He fired a long burst at one of the flashing rifles and the rifle went silent; McKuen rolled away from the tree and ran humpbacked through the jungle while the three remaining guns, none of them very far away, increased their fire angrily. He tripped, and felt a soft object under him. One of the men he had killed. The man carried a pair of grenades.

McKuen tossed one of them at the chattering automatic weapon. He thought, I’ve got a Goddamn charmed life. Nothing can touch me. The grenade did not go off. He pulled the pin of the second grenade and threw it after the first.

The explosion lit up the jungle. Something stung his ribs along the right side of his body. The automatic weapon went silent and so did one of the rifles nearby. McKuen thought, I’m hit. He saw the one remaining rifle chugging red blossoms off at an angle, not shooting toward him at all. McKuen chopped down with the submachine gun and braced it against his arm and held the trigger back, sweeping the district until all the guns but his own were dead.

He wheezed like an engine and sat down crosslegged in the forest. His side was bleeding, cut open along a ragged scratch. Not a bullet, he thought. Not a bullet. Shrapnel from that Goddamn grenade I threw. Hoist by me own bloody petard.

He made a bandage and lay back chewing on the unlit cigarette. That was when his hand began to shake. The tremor came slowly and grew worse. Presently his body shook. He had to lie flat. His lips jerked into a grin. “I am a bloody hero. Who’d ever believe that? A bloody war hero.”

He stood up. “A bloody dead hero’s what I am,” he muttered. The jungle was impenetrable. It was four o’clock in the morning, and there was no light. He did not know how far he had come away from the Sang Chu gorge. He did not know which way to go. But he turned around on his heels, a full circle, and he said, “That way,” and he walked into the jungle, dragging the submachine gun by its barrel.

“Take ten,” Tyreen said. He put his back to a rock and slid down to sit on the damp earth. Forty yards below him the jungle began again, unrolling across the valley. He could see the mountains a dozen miles away, the upper end of the high gorge breaking starkly out of the forest.

Saville and Hooker laid down the stretcher and Eddie Kreizler rolled his head toward Tyreen. “Magiccarpet treatment,” Kreizler said. His tone bespoke his belligerent fight against the effects of pain.

Nguyen Khang climbed higher on the mountain to search the valley. Tyreen sat back and let his chugging lungs settle down. He swallowed a capsule and felt the small number of them left in the tin in his pocket; he allowed himself a dreary moment’s anticipation of the hours ahead. Kreizler said, “I’m hungry as hell,” and Saville found a ration for him. J. D. Hooker’s cropped head tipped forward against his chest; his flat face was dull. Across the valley the rough hat and spear contours of the heights stood against a mottled, half-broken sky, graying up in false dawn. Flows of mist filled pockets on the hills, and when Sergeant Khang came sliding down from his reconnaissance he said, “Going to warm up today, I think. Can’t see much down there.”

Faint abrasive sounds came out of the jungle. A few birds whistled. Khang went down to the edge of the trees and disappeared in darkness. Tyreen leaned his head back and closed his eyes momentarily. The sky threw a steady growth of illumination across the landscape. Tyreen’s eyes slid open, and he found J. D. Hooker studying him. Hooker possessed an unbreakable solemnity; Tyreen could never remember seeing him laugh. Hooker’s face was the cold color of marble. He said in a half-cranky tone, “It’s getting late to be hanging around here. Sir.”

When Tyreen said nothing, Hooker’s chin thrust forward. Always ready to pick a fight, Tyreen thought. Theodore Saville said, “You ought to pick your enemies with more care, Hooker.”

“What?”

“Can’t hate everybody, can you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it,” said Saville. Hooker looked away incuriously. Darkness gave ground quickly, and on the eastern horizon a pale yellow band appeared and spread out, quite rapidly, along the hilltops.

Tyreen saw Hooker’s gun muzzle move. His eyes caught a movement that disappeared in the trees and presently came in sight again. Tyreen moved his body to one side to have better control of his submachine gun. After a moment he relaxed. “All right. It’s Khang.”

Sergeant Khang paused at that moment, on the edge of the trees, and studied the shadowed rocks with care. Tyreen’s voice crawled softly down to him: “Come on up.”

Khang slid into the rock’s overhanging shadow with the smell of his exerted sweat pumping out. When his breathing had softened, he said, “Nobody around. There’s a trail, but I think it may be mined.”

Violet shadows crept backward across jungle depressions, in fast-moving retreat. Tyreen shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The red rim of the ascending sun came over the horizon and flared against his face. He put his head back against the hard, grainy rock; his legs flopped out straight, and he lay as though collapsed. A loose tangle of memories crowded paths through his tired mind, of times and places that had nothing in common with this time and this place. He heard Kreizler murmuring to Saville about his wife back home, and he heard Saville’s grunts of reply. He thought of the few women he had known, and wondered why he had been unable to stay with any of them, or they with him. Odd thoughts, stray images — he had for one instant a clear vision of Saville on a swaying boat deck off the Korean coast, firing a semiautomatic rifle with deadly, methodical precision into the trees above a thin band of beach.

He opened his eyes, and the red disk of the sun was balanced on the horizon. The slanted rays turned the far mountain of the Sang Chu gorge crimson and violet. They splashed the faces of his companions with a ruddy flush, all except Kreizler’s, which lay in shadow and remained pale and strained.

Saville moved his weight up to the rock. “David, you been giving any thought to what we do when we get there?”

“We blow up the bridge.”

“While two hundred People’s Soldiers twiddle their thumbs and cheer us on?”

Tyreen drew a picture on the ground. “This is the gorge. The bridge crosses it here. On the south side there’s a big shelf, maybe a hundred yards deep and a quarter mile long. That’s where the troop barracks are. Fortifications and the rest. On the north side there’s a small guard tower. It’s all they’ve got room for. The tracks make a small turn and go into a tunnel maybe fifteen yards from the bridge. The tunnel comes out on the north side of the mountain. It’s about a third of a mile long.”

“I know all that,” Saville said.

“Sometimes it helps to draw a picture.”

“Okay. What do you figure to do? Make our approach through the tunnel?”

“Exactly.”

“It’ll be guarded. Probably machine gun emplacements at both ends — maybe more than that.”

“Guarded against what?” Tyreen said.

“People like us.”

“But it’s not guarded against trains.”

Saville’s head skewed back. “Trains?”

Tyreen pointed at his drawing. “Tracks go up a steep grade to get to the tunnel. A train going southbound would be slowed to a crawl by the time it got near the top.”

“And you want to play Jesse James and steal a Goddamn train.”

“And rig our demolitions on the engine,” Tyreen said, “and set the whole thing to blow sky-high when it rolls onto the bridge.”

Saville said, “It’s a good plan — a great plan, except for maybe three or four dozen holes in it. David, you must be out—”

Tyreen cut him off: “If it was your tunnel and your bridge, would you expect anybody to try a stunt like this?”

“I guess not.”

“Then they won’t expect it either.”

Saville growled, “What the hell difference does that make? There’s only four of us. And Eddie. How in hell do we steal a train? How do we get on board without anybody knowing we’re there?”

Tyreen pointed across the valley. “The trains stop at the bottom of the grade to take on water. They still use steam engines up here. We jump them at the water tank.”

Saville shook his head. “When the troops up there hear us shooting it out with the train crew, they won’t just scratch their heads and shrug. The minute we fire one shot, they’ll have half the North Vietnamese army up our ass.”

“Then we’ll have to make it our business not to fire one shot,” Tyreen said. He shouldered into his pack and got to his feet. “Time to move out.”

The rising sun gave George McKuen no comfort. There was a dull ache along his ribs; the shrapnel cut had not altogether stopped bleeding. He stumbled forward through the jungle, and the dancing light of recklessness was all gone from his eyes. The heavy, sticky rain forest trapped him. Mist cleared slowly out of slimy bogs. The stub-barreled chopper hung across his back on its canvas sling. Both his hands were cut and half scabbed, knotted with cloth. He paced a slow track through fungus and sludge. His mind executed quick, disordered jumps. He felt exposed in the steamy daylight. His eyes sought mines and traps in the earth.

Shortly after dawn he stopped and lighted a cigarette. He pulled up his pants legs and deliberately burned eight leeches off his legs with the end of the cigarette.

His expression was wooden. He had nothing to eat, and he did not know which jungle fruits to trust. The complete silence of the day’s first hour seemed terribly dangerous. The gunsling bit into his shoulder, and he shifted it. He opened his jacket to look at the wound in his side. The wadded cloth against it was rust-brown.

He felt the residue of night chill, but the temperature was climbing sharply. He rolled his pants down and stuffed them into his boots and walked on, threading the jungle without strength or purpose. He knew from the angle of the sun, visible now and then in brief glimpses, that he was heading north. He would go north until he was beyond the mountains, and then he would turn east to the sea. That was as far as his thinking took him.

He came to the river, and it seemed deep and treacherous. Instead of trying to get across, he stayed on the bank and went along the river. He knew the river flowed into the sea. The jungle was too thick to travel the river bank. He had to circle back and forth. Keeping the river in earshot was enough. Perhaps he would come upon a sampan.

He almost stepped on a scorpion. The river was deep and gentle, not particularly noisy. He moved slowly across the patchwork shadows of the forest tops. Footing was spongy, and he had to use his knife continually. It was slow going, and he wished he had a machete. The jungle was lonely and unfriendly, and fatigue, long overdue, had crept into his muscles and heavy-lidded eyes. He stopped reckoning time.

Hooker and Khang, stumbling at times, carried the litter. Tyreen walked ahead, stooping to search spots where twigs poked up from the path, where vines across the track might be trigger-threads, where an interwoven mat of fallen twigs and branches might conceal a pit bottomed with barbed pungi stakes. Saville guarded the rear: Saville walked along burdened with his own pack and the heavy sackful of explosives and the radio equipment — and after the second hour’s march, without comment, Saville had taken Tyreen’s pack as well, and Tyreen had been unable to raise the will to object.

It was slow traveling along the trail searching for traps, suspicious of every leaf and vine; it would have been slower yet to break trail through the rain forest.

There was no deadline to speak of Tyreen knew the last freight of the day would reach the water tank late in the afternoon. The night train was a passenger train to Haiphong, and it would not do to hijack a passenger train.

But the hours were enemies, and Tyreen hurried.

He hurried as much as he could — foot-weary, raw-eyed, and weak with malarial fevers. He snapped at the two sergeants to keep up. He snapped at himself when his foot, too heavy to clear a root, snagged and almost toppled him. He snapped at the deceptive twigs and vines and mats of branches on the path. He snapped, under his breath, at Eddie Kreizler, whose head rolled from side to side and whose mouth was pinched grimly shut. He was about to snap at Theodore Saville, but when he looked at the incredible heap of equipment piled on top of Saville he held his tongue.

Squinting and blinking painfully, Tyreen plodded on a slightly down-tilted jungle track and listened to the rasp of his own breathing. He gave himself a reluctant thought. The General will say, “You ought to be shot.” He will be right.

Maybe I will be shot, he thought. He did not overestimate his chances of survival.

He suspected there was a blister on the back of his left heel. He clenched his toes to keep the boot from rubbing. The trail was never visible more than ten feet ahead at most. Moss, vines, trees, ferns, mud, roots, ants and snakes and centipedes and leeches, tangled thorns, thickets of bamboo stalks eight inches thick, the soaked red-black earth — all of it was covered with a thin excremental slime, slightly green, like dirty motor oil.

The temperature was moderate, but in the steamy motionless air he would have sweated violently even without fever. He swallowed salt tablets and canteen water, and his cuffs were sodden from wiping his eyebrows to keep sweat out of his vision.

Here and there, the morning sun streamed through apertures in the treetops. The trail curled back and forth until it stretched out, straight and level, over a distance of twenty-five or thirty feet. The surface was rocky just here. Tyreen swung out of line and waited for the others to pass. “Set him down and take a break.”

Saville came up, big as a Clydesdale. He lowered his load to the ground. He was not even breathing hard. He said, “You may break, but you won’t let yourself quit.”

Tyreen said, “Put pressure on a man, and you begin to find out what he’s worth. It works on the rest of you — it works on myself, too.”

“Most of all,” Saville said. He sat down beside Tyreen. “I wish I knew what in hell you’re trying to prove, David.”

Kreizler was listening. Kreizler’s voice croaked at them: “A pillar of strength, David?”

Tyreen looked at him. Kreizler said, “The Colonel wants to stand like an oasis of honor and courage and strength. You’d be all right, David, if you didn’t have such a big conscience breathing down your neck.”

Tyreen looked at Sergeant Khang. “Let’s have a little security.”

Khang walked forward along the trail. Hooker, without expression, got up and walked back the way they had come, and sat down facing away from the rest of them.

Kreizler said, “Old Ironbutt didn’t know you were going to head this thing up yourself, did he?”

“No,” Tyreen said.

“Even the old man’s not that crazy.” Kreizler’s head was tilted speculatively. “You still don’t know what this is all about, do you, David? Your honest little brain hasn’t got it figured out yet.”

“Got what figured out?”

“The whole thing. It’s a puppet show, you and me and the rest of us. General Jaynshill’s been pulling the strings on the whole damned show. This was set up. It had to be. I was in a position where it was more than likely I’d fall into enemy hands. Knowing that, the General still saw fit to convey important strategic information to me by radio. Information that turned out to be false — information the enemy would be bound to get out of me if they captured me. Does it start to become clear yet, David?”

Tyreen said, “You’re wrong, Eddie.”

“Then quit frowning.”

Tyreen hunched his knees up and took off his boots. His feet smelled as acrid as strong vinegar. His heel was raw; a blister was starting to come up.

Kreizler said, “And you’re busting your ass trying to do a good job for Old Ironbutt. He’s shafted you, David. Screwed the whole lot of us.”

Tyreen said, “What would you do, Eddie?”

“Quit humoring me.”

“All right. Just tell me. What would you do?”

Kreizler said in a level tone, “I’d make it count. I’d take those damned explosives in that sack and I’d smuggle myself into Hanoi and blow up the Goddamn premier’s palace. To hell with a crummy railroad bridge. Who gives a shit? They’ll rebuild the thing in a little while. Just give me one crack at old Uncle Ho — and then watch the fur fly.”

Kreizler smiled weakly. “But you won’t do that. You won’t even think about that. You’ve got your orders and your Goddamn conscience. It comes with a colonel’s eagles.”

Tyreen said nothing. Kreizler said, “What about you, Theodore? What do you think?”

Tyreen slipped his boot on. “It doesn’t matter what Theodore thinks. I’ll give the orders a while longer yet. Eddie, when the manager says sacrifice, you bunt — you don’t make wild swings hoping for a home run.”

There was a trick he had learned from a truck driver. He let his cigarette burn down to a stub and sear his fingers. The pain, a new pain, would wake him up. He felt jittery, the result of too many quinines and Benzedrines and too much sickness. And, perhaps, fear.

Kreizler said, “We’ve been used, David. All of us.”

“No,” Tyreen said. “If you were a gift to the enemy, Eddie, the General wouldn’t have been so anxious to break you out and get you home. They don’t do this kind of thing for every P.O.W.”

Kreizler said, “Exactly, David. They don’t. That’s just my point. There’s only one reason you were sent up here to bust me out. It was to tell the enemy how important I am. How valuable I am. How much my information means. When you busted me loose, it was the final straw, for them. It convinced them my information was worth acting on. The information they had to torture out of me because I didn’t know it was a Goddamn puking lie.”

He added more quietly, “If this wasn’t premeditated, David, then why did the General make plans two weeks ago to shift the positions of all our teams up here?”

Tyreen’s eyes lay fixed on the implacable dark jungle. Kreizler murmured, “Maybe it comes as a shock to you, though God knows why it should. We are no better than they are. We are no different from them, David. We—”

“Shut up, Eddie.”

“Never interrupt a dying man, David.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I’m in limbo, right now. David, if you weren’t so pathetic, I’d laugh at you. We’ve taken a patient with a wooden leg, two blind eyes, arthritis, cancer, heart disease, and athlete’s foot. We’ve cured the athlete’s foot. Hell, we haven’t accomplished a thing. And how many got killed? How many got hurt?”

Tyreen said, “You’ll feel better, Eddie.”

Kreizler said huskily, “I’m dying, David. Because that’s the way I want it. Dying only means one thing to me right now. Not being tired anymore. Not feeling like a bastard. I remember when I was a kid, we used to go to church, and we had a real Fundamentalist preacher in those days. According to him the Devil’s ultimate goal was to take a man’s soul and give him nothing at all in exchange. The Devil has got to all of us. Do you remember I asked you if you’d ever heard of a Judas goat? A Judas goat’s what they use to lead sheep into the slaughterhouse, because sheep are dumb enough to follow any animal with gumption enough to lead the way. And a goat is just dumb enough to lead the way. That’s me, David. That by God is me. And I’ll be grateful to you if you keep your damned hands off me and let me die.”

Kreizler’s voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. Saville made a gesture; he was about to get up. Tyreen stopped him. “You can’t mess with a man’s fear, Theodore. You’ve got to let him do that for himself.”

Saville said, in his considered way, “I don’t think he’s afraid, David. I don’t think that’s it.”

Kreizler looked at Tyreen with a crooked grin. “David, you’re a one-of-a-kind original. You go around like a character trying to kill fleas with a shovel. You’ll never have a thing to show for your Goddamn honor and guts except some threads on your shoulders where your insignia used to hang. You and your puking paralyzed upper lip.” His head turned away, and he said absently, “I wish I had some G.I. soap right now. I’d like to wash off some of this dirt before I have to start paying real-estate taxes on it.”

Saville regarded him dismally. Tyreen said, “He’ll think a different way when he gets well. He’s pretty sick right now.”

Kreizler turned around angrily. “I hope I’m sick, David. I hope to God I’m sick. Because I’d hate like hell to feel this way if I was well. But that doesn’t change anything. You come banging up here with your Goddamn worthless dignity and your principles like Genghis Khan. You let yourself get euchred into this stunt because you thought you were doing a good thing. If you’d known what it was really all about, you’d have told the General to go diddle himself. Which is exactly why he lied to you. Am I right, Colonel? You bet I am right. Dead right. You’d do anything at all if it was orders, but this was a volunteer job, wasn’t it? You can’t even use a war criminal’s excuse. You didn’t even have to come. David, you’ve got loose brains. You’ve got your left foot and your right foot, and you don’t need any other enemies.”

Kreizler seemed to sag. He touched a bandaged fist to his chest. “I’ve got a sour lump right here,” he said. “It won’t go up, and it won’t go down.”

“So,” he said after a little while, unable to think of anything to add.

Tyreen sat brooding across the path. He said, “Maybe we all deserve better than what we get.”

Kreizler said, “Sentiment is an amateur’s weakness, David.” He lay frowning, earnestly scratching one buttock with stubborn determination. He said, “I never trusted Old Ironbutt. Even when I was his exec, back in Korea. He’s got too many teeth in that alligator smile of his. I should’ve figured him for something like this. Just as sure as there’s a hole in your ass. He likes these jobs. He gets his kicks that way — vicarious. I guess he’s like most of us. Everybody likes to be a killer, but it’s unfashionable to admit it.” He cackled harshly, like a hen. “Okay. You throw the dice, they come up crap-out. But if you get back, David, do one thing for me. Remember Old Ironbutt. He’s the heavy.”

Kreizler moved his arms and lay with his hands behind his head, looking at the treetops as though printing poems on the sky. His voice clacked abruptly: “You can’t take me along on this train caper. I can’t chase after a train or jump off a train. You’ll have to ditch me somewhere. Might as well be right here.”

“We’ll see,” Tyreen said. “We may leave you at the water tank. But we’ll be back for you. I promise you that.”

“Sure,” Kreizler said. “And if you’re not back in twelve hours, I’m to call the man from U.N.C.L.E. I don’t believe you’ll make it, if you want my honest opinion. I don’t think you really know the odds against you.”

“I don’t play the odds,” Tyreen said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake take off your blindfold. You could blow up a thousand bridges, and it wouldn’t change a thing.”

Tyreen said slowly, “I’m in command, Eddie.”

“In command of what? Everything but yourself.”

There were times when a man had to make a quick decision and then stick to it for the rest of his life. Tyreen sat silent, measuring the flow of time and fixing a limit after which he would step away and lead them into the jungle.

Kreizler said, “I guess it’s too late for you to start thinking.”

You had to fight, and you had to believe there was a point to it. If that was blind dedication, then Kreizler was right, it was too late to worry.

Kreizler said, “I like to hope, too.”

Theodore Saville said, “We’re not paid to think about things, Eddie.”

Kreizler’s eyes flicked around. “Live long enough, Theodore, and you’ll decide to let some other fool do the dirty jobs.”

Tyreen said, “I always thought it ought to be the other way around.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Kreizler said disgustedly. “David, today means more than yesterday. Why don’t you get Theodore and those other two out of here while you can?”

Tyreen said, after a moment, “There are worse things than dying, Eddie.”

“For me. Not for you.” Kreizler moved himself around on one hip. “Last night I was going to lift Theodore’s gun. To get it over with, get myself out of your way. But I just couldn’t do it. I guess they’ve made oatmeal out of me.”

“They?”

“Colonel Trung and Old Ironbutt. Not much choice between those two. But that doesn’t matter, not to you. You’re thinking about that Goddamn railroad bridge, and as far as you’re concerned it’s just one more river to cross. One last bridge to blow. David, you ought to have your Goddamn head kicked in. You’re a gentleman, and that’s a puking tragic thing. There’s no place left for gentlemen. Who do you think you are, David — General Robert E. Lee?”

The pupils of Kreizler’s eyes were pinpoints; the irises around them seemed enlarged, and a bright glint pushed out of them. His face was flushed, and earnest taut anger was ground into the pain-tracked lines around his mouth. He reached out and took a powerful grip on Tyreen’s wrist. “Get them home — before you have them on your conscience, too.”

Tyreen gave him a bloodshot look. Kreizler removed his hand, and Tyreen’s face hardened. Kreizler said, “You’ll never square it with that conscience of yours.”

Tyreen got up. He made a low whistle, and J. D. Hooker’s head swiveled around inquiringly. Hooker nodded and picked himself up and walked forward. Tyreen reached for his pack. His submachine gun lay on the ground. Saville said, “I’ll carry the pack.”

“I’ll lug it awhile.”

He picked up the pack and got one arm into the harness, and then Kreizler was rolling over, grabbing up the submachine gun. He lurched to his feet and hobbled across the trail with his legs apart; Tyreen dropped the pack and swung toward him. Kreizler’s gun swayed toward J. D. Hooker, and Kreizler started to talk very fast, not making any sense. His finger whitened on the trigger, and he sprayed bullets into the ground. Their geyser-tracks marched toward Hooker’s feet and Hooker, roaring with rage, whipped his chopper up. There was a tearing blast of submachine gun fire. It lifted Kreizler off his feet and slammed him back against the trees. He fell down with his mouth open.

“Jesus,” J. D. Hooker said in fascination.

Saville ran across the path and took Kreizler’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. Tyreen knelt beside him. Saville said, “Dead. He went right out of his head.”

“No,” said Tyreen. “He did it deliberately. He had it in his head the minute we set him down.”

Hooker came over, slinging his gun. He crouched by Kreizler in disbelief. “What the puke did he do that for, Colonel?”

Tyreen told him, “Captain Kreizler figured he’d slow us down and make our job tougher. He knew we wouldn’t kill him or leave him behind.”

Hooker said, “And he took this way out? Jesus. What an ugly Goddamn way to die.”

“Tell me a pretty way,” Theodore Saville said, and turned his face away.

Hooker got up and moved down the trail like a sleepwalker. Saville said in a low tone, “That’s not why he killed himself, and you know it.”

“Maybe,” Tyreen said. “We’ll never be sure. But the story I gave Hooker is the story we stick by.”

Saville said, “I thought I had you filed. But I guess you never know about a man.”

“We’ll bury him and get out of here. That noise will bring a patrol this way.”

Saville’s face was heavy. Tyreen took out a crumpled cigarette pack and shook it out. “Smoke, Theodore?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

Tyreen said, “Smoking’s a bad thing. It can make a man sick to his stomach.”

After a while Saville said, “I guess I will have that cigarette.”

Dry cigarette smoke burned McKuen’s throat raw, and he crushed the cigarette out and stood with his attention on the corpse at his feet.

The dead soldier lay on the trail, decapitated, his head between his legs.

Montagnard work, McKuen supposed. He drew a line in the earth with his dragging bootheel. When he took off his hat, the small wind roughed up his hair. He went away, pushing through a brier thicket. His clothes were shredded. When he rubbed his dry lips he felt them crack. For a little while he sat down in the mud and thought, I feel like a bloke in a cataleptic trance. He had developed somewhere the ability to seal himself off from brutality. He felt so accustomed to death that it no longer reached him.

He had come across an open pit by the river bank. A gibbon had crashed through the camouflaged matting and impaled itself on pungi stakes in the pit. It had seemed alive — breathing, but unconscious. There had been no point in rescuing it, because the pungi stakes would be poisoned with tetanus-infected dung, but McKuen had spent a long time lifting the monkey out of the pit. It had not stirred. He had left it by the river bank, where it could reach water.

Now he jerked his chin up. Was I asleep? He backed away from the river and found an opening in the jungle. A slight sound bothered him, and he stopped. It sounded like a car. It was coming definitely toward him. He stood carrying his gun with his lean shoulders pulled together. After a moment he walked away from the river. He moved into a shaft of sunlight and glanced up, and thought, Anyway it’s still morning. His eyes were close-lidded.

He found the road, a green-brown stripe running between walls of heavy rain forest. Deep shadows made a corridor of it. He put his shoulder to a tree, numbed but alerted, and heard the spurt of engine backfires as the nearing vehicle rolled down a slope. He raised his eyebrows and melted back into the jungle. The rumble of wheels grew louder, the scrape of dusty brakes. The nose of a jeep crawled into sight up the road. A swirl of risen moisture hovered around it. McKuen watched through shadow-pearled branches. The shadows seemed to move, converging against him. The jeep went into sunlight, and its windshield was a rectangle of blinding white. Settling spray made a thin, brown mist. A puff of cigarette smoke issued from the jeep window and fled in thin streaks. McKuen closed his fingers tight around the gun.

“Kicks,” he said.

Foliage rattled when he moved. He wanted that jeep. His feet were blistered, his legs were tired. The jeep engine grew louder, picking up revolutions on the flats with a grating noise. Twigs reported the crush of tires. McKuen lifted his gun and waited by the edge of the road.

On a sunbaked shelf of yellow rock, Tyreen lay prone with glare narrowing his eyes. Theodore Saville’s basso profundo rumbled softly across the rock:

“It sounds like a jeep.”

J. D. Hooker said, “I don’t see any road down there.”

And Sergeant Khang answered him. “That’s the road they use to reach the bridge garrison. It keeps pretty close to the river.”

The breeze had died. Heat swelled along the rock face. Tyreen studied the jungle treetops with heightened perception that made every object sharp-edged and clearly splashed with color. A stray idea began to cross his mind. It was cut off abruptly by the rattle of a submachine gun and the answer of two or three rifles, not far below in the rain forest.

The jeep had stopped moving. Hooker said, “What now, for Christ’s sake?”

Saville said, “It’s none of our business.”

“Maybe,” Tyreen said. “But it sounds like two or three against one.”

“Some stupid Yard,” said Hooker. “They’ve probably got him by now.”

“If they had him,” Tyreen said, “they wouldn’t be making so much noise.”

A soldier ran into sight forty yards below, stood irresolutely for an instant, and broke into a run with his bayoneted rifle at the ready position. Theodore Saville lifted his chopper and fired a three-second burst. The soldier dropped. Tyreen’s eyes whipped around to Saville’s, and in that moment of interlocked glances they made a wordless decision and scrambled off the rock, running down into the rain forest. Hooker ran after them — after the promise of action — and Khang followed Hooker.

Tyreen stopped by the dead soldier. He heard nothing until a single gunshot sounded, a thinned report through the trees. Tyreen turned around in time to see Hooker, cursing over his submachine gun; it would not fire. Tyreen could not see Hooker’s intended target. A rifle opened up, out of sight; the echoes of its shots rolled through the jungle. Hooker picked up the dead man’s bayoneted rifle and swung back into the trees. Tyreen saw him lift his arm and hurl the rifle like a spear.

Tyreen moved forward, his chopper lifted halfway to the shoulder. He passed a tree and saw Hooker bending over something; Hooker’s knife rose and fell. Someone called out. Tyreen’s attention whipped through the forest, and he saw George McKuen standing splay-footed, arched over his submachine gun. The gun made a racket and quieted down. Tyreen ran through the undergrowth. He saw a boyish grin cut across McKuen’s red-stubbled cheeks. McKuen’s bright flash of hair stood out in wild disorder.

The first thing McKuen said was, “There’s three of them. I killed one.”

“Then they’re all taken out.”

McKuen’s shoulders sagged. “Colonel, you looked like the cavalry coming over the hill.”

“What in blazes are you doing down here?”

“Trying to steal a jeep,” McKuen said. He sat down uncertainly and apologized: “I’m a little tired.”

“Where’s Shannon?”

“He didn’t make it.” McKuen worked his boot around on his foot. “Feet are fine for propping on furniture and pushing pedals, Colonel, but one thing they’re bloody well not made for, and that’s walking.” He shook his head and blinked. “I suppose it wouldn’t be fittin’ for me to ask where you people came from?”

“Lieutenant,” Tyreen said, “I’d explain it to you if I thought I’d believe it myself.”

He was trying to conceal the fact that he was breathing hard. He watched the others come up — Saville and Sergeant Khang and, finally, Hooker cursing in a lackluster monotone and trying to clear a dented cartridge out of his submachine gun.

Saville started talking to McKuen. Tyreen walked away and stopped Sergeant Khang. “Does that road go by the water station on the railroad?”

“Yes, sir. Two, three miles back.”

“Find out if that jeep’s still working.”

McKuen was speaking loudly to Saville: “I want to resign, Captain. I want to quit.”

Looking pleased, Saville said, “Sure, George. Just wait a minute, and I’ll call you a taxi.”

It was the first time in a long time that Tyreen had seen Saville smile.

The water tank was a solitary structure in the rain forest, deserted and silent. They got out of the jeep, and Sergeant Khang was complaining: “Maybe it worked for us once, Colonel, but that kind of stunt can’t work twice in a row. We’ll get our pants shot off.”

The tracks came out of the jungle, passed the tall water tower, and plunged back into timber and undergrowth. The river lapped its banks. A tiny wooden dock jutted out into the water.

Tyreen told Khang, “Loosen some wires under the hood, in case they want to check your story.”

The jeep stood beside the tracks. Khang threw up his hands. “Colonel, I’ve known since we left Saigon that you were out of your gourd. But I’m still alive, playing it your way. So whatever you say, sir.”

Tyreen said, “There ought to be a freight along soon. Hooker...?”

Hooker put his ear to the track and got up shaking his head. George McKuen, a disheveled scarecrow in tattered cloth and bandages, sat on the front fender. Saville gave him a package of rations, and McKuen attacked the food like a drug addict snatching an overdue fix. But other than hunger he revealed all the feelings of a cement slab. Tyreen’s lips pushed out and down, keeping time. He took note of the lifelessness of McKuen’s expression. Don’t think about it, he thought. There was too much to think about. He pictured Nhu Van Sun and Corporal Smith and Warrant Officer Shannon and the delicate features of Lin Thao. And the echoes of Captain Eddie Kreizler’s talk kept banging around. Who do you think you are — General Robert E. Lee?

He realized that McKuen was talking to him:

“... have to fill it in a little slow for us country boys, Colonel, but do we by any chance have the wherewithal to be extractin’ ourselves from this bloody hinterland?”

Saville answered the question. “We got our orders this morning by radio. Blow the bridge and get down the river. A submarine from the Seventh Fleet will pick us up at midnight at the mouth of the Sang Chu.”

“Blow the bridge,” McKuen said, “and travel forty miles of jungle river. In — what? — twelve hours, maybe? Thirteen hours? Captain, I could conceivably be wrong, but nobody here looks like Tarzan to me.” He considered it. “Still and all, I’m thinkin’ if we don’t get there by midnight, we won’t get there at all. Am I right, gentlemen?”

No one troubled to answer him. McKuen nodded as if to confirm his estimate.

Tyreen said, “There may be a flatcar back near the tail of the train with an antiaircraft crew. Theodore, that’s your job. Sergeant Hooker, you’ll have about eighteen minutes to set your charges on the engine. And remember this: a nearmiss counts in a game of horseshoes, but not up here. Use a sixty-second fuse, and don’t light it until you get my signal. As soon as the fuse is lit, we leave the train. Sergeant Khang and I will keep the engine crew occupied. Any questions?”

McKuen said, “What about me?”

“You’re just along for the ride, Lieutenant.”

“That’ll be bloody refreshing for a change.”

But McKuen’s eyes were bloodshot, and his tone was dull, and the slack attitude of his body belied the good humor of his words.

Tyreen nodded to the others and crossed the tracks. He took a post, hidden in a thicket of bamboo, and waited for the others to join him. “Relax. Smoke if you want. Hooker, check your equipment.”

George McKuen’s sudden grin was a spasm of clenched teeth and drawn lips. “This time,” he said, “I’ll see that bridge smashed to bloody hell, or know the reason why.”

The train reached its sliding halt with a sigh of brake shoes. Smoke chuffed from the engine stack, and Tyreen saw the inscription on one slat-sided boxcar: Hommes 52–56, Chevaux 12. The train curved away into the jungle; its rear end was out of sight. Faintly, over exhalations of steam, Tyreen heard Sergeant Khang on the far side of the train talking to the engineer. The engineer and the fireman and the armed guard all crowded over to the far side of the engine to talk to Khang. Tyreen made a brief hand signal and stepped out of the bamboo.

He crossed the five-yard distance with rapid strides and followed Saville up into the engine cab. Saville had his gun braced on his hip. The tone of Khang’s voice changed, and the engine guard stiffened. Saville spoke calmly in Vietnamese and reached around to relieve the guard of his weapon.

Hooker and McKuen climbed up. Sergeant Khang looked both ways along the track and swung up. He said, “Take on water and proceed. We are not here. You understand?” He was talking to the engine driver.

The engineer was a middle-aged man with watery eyes and sloping chin. He blinked rapidly. His face was whipped red by wind. Tyreen’s gun muzzle lifted to cover the crew. The fireman was a hard chunk of a man with a keen, violent temper mirrored in his face. George McKuen said, “I’m thinking we’ll be doing our own coal-shoveling before this ride’s over, Colonel.”

“Watch him,” Tyreen agreed.

J. D. Hooker crouched down to lay out his equipment. Tyreen braced himself on the tender platform, giving Hooker room to work. Tyreen said, “All right, Theodore.”

Saville dropped off the engine and trotted back alongside the train. Sergeant Khang tied the sentry with his own belt and bootlaces. The man spoke bitterly.

The fireman rammed his shovel into the tender’s coal with a blow that could sever a man’s body. Sergeant Khang spoke a mild command; the engineer reached for his throttle. His tongue licked out rapidly.

Air brakes wheezed, and the big wheels spun before they took a grip on the tracks. The engine ground forward. Back half the length of the train, Theodore Saville reached for a boxcar ladder and swung up as the car rolled past. Saville swarmed up to the top of the car and ran back along the swaying catwalks. Tyreen lost sight of him around the curve in the track.

McKuen said, “The good Captain’s one landmark I didn’t expect to raise again. What happens if he has to fight a duel with an antiaircraft gun?”

Hooker made a pattern of tamping jelly, explosive blocks, wires and fuses and caps. Sergeant Khang bent down and rolled the trussed guard off the train. The guard’s angry shouting followed them. Wheel-trucks chattered on the rails. A red blaze glared in the open firebox, shining on Hooker’s face. Like a young spider, he seemed to thrive on the oppressive heat. The roadbed traveled a soggy, uneven course through jungle corridors. The engineer clutched his throttle; his eyes drained, and he stared petulantly straight ahead past the boiler.

A demolition cap rolled with the motion of the engine, and Hooker made a grab for it. The fireman’s quick eyes did not miss that; his powerful grip tightened on the coal spade. Iron wheels drummed on rail-splices, gathering speed. Tyreen spoke to Nguyen Khang: “Tell him to keep his speed down.”

Khang yelled in the engineer’s ear. The engineer answered quickly, resentfully. Khang stepped back and bellowed above the noise: “He says we got to have speed to make it up the grade.”

“All right. Hooker?”

“I’ll get it done,” said Hooker without looking up.

“Shape your charge to direct the force straight down. We want to blow the bridge, not the roof of the engine.”

“By God, don’t you think I know that much?”

Hooker worked on his knees with professional deliberation. When the fireman’s full shovel of coal passed by his face, Hooker hardly blinked; his concentration was complete.

The train made a thirty-five-mile clip. Branches sprang off the cab. Tyreen could see the engine’s weight depressing the ties on their soft bedding. The shoulders of the lower gorge rolled toward them, and the tracks swung away from the river and started their turn into the upgrade. The heavy smell of the jungle developed a sting from the added bite of coal smoke and intense dry heat. There was one length of straight track, curving upward in a bow. When Tyreen searched the length of the train, he found no sign of Saville.

McKuen said, “I don’t see any antiaircraft car.”

“Maybe.”

“Could be the beggars haven’t got enough of them to go around. Anyhow, we can always hope.”

Tyreen’s hope was that a low-hanging limb had not swept Saville off the train. The firebox guttered raw scarlet light across the cab. The train clicked along; the engine, fighting a stiffening grade, began to lose speed. Couplings crackled in brittle strain. Tyreen shifted his weary grip on the gun. “Four or five minutes, Hooker.”

The fireman rammed his shovel into the tender. His tongue licked a thin line across his soot-dark lips. Tyreen turned his attention momentarily to the engineer. That was when the fireman turned with a full shovel of coal and sprang catlike at J. D. Hooker. Hooker somehow felt the threat; he pulled up a shoulder and launched himself forward under the swing of the shovel. Before Tyreen could move, Hooker’s head butted the fireman’s belly and the fireman sailed back. The shovel dropped loosely across Hooker’s back. The fireman dropped out of the cab and kept himself on board only by the precarious grip of one hand against the handrail. Sergeant Khang whipped around; McKuen lifted his gun. Tyreen, who was closest, deliberately stepped in front of McKuen’s gun. For one moment he locked glances with the fireman. The fireman shouted at him. Tyreen slammed the side of his gun barrel savagely against the fireman’s knuckles. It broke the fireman’s hold. He fell away backwards. His cry was brief; he plunged down the embankment, striking on one shoulder. His head rolled loosely. He rolled to the bottom, and his shape receded along the train.

Cascading lumps of coal left a checkerboard of charcoal stains on the back of J. D. Hooker’s field jacket. Hooker scooped up the coal shovel and rammed it into Khang’s hands. “Work, damn you.” Hooker dropped back to his destructive tools as if there had been no interruption.

McKuen spoke weary relief. Tyreen beckoned him close and said, “Can you run this engine?”

McKuen considered it. “Looks easy enough. If I don’t have to turn loop-the-loops.”

Tyreen stepped past Hooker and shook the engineer’s shoulder. He said in Vietnamese, “Jump.”

The engineer jerked back. “Choi oi!”

“Di nhanh,” Tyreen said. “Di di.”

He gripped the engineer’s collar and propelled him to the open platform. The engineer gripped the handrails with both hands and bent his knees like a diver. “Da dao my,” he said with bravado, and leaped away.

Tyreen watched him tumble. McKuen grasped the throttle and looked back. “Is he all right?”

“I think so.”

“What was that last crack?”

“He said, ‘Down with America,’” Tyreen answered drily.

Sergeant Khang tossed coal into the firebox. The train howled up the long curving grade with a clang of steel and a banner of smoke. The slope tilted up, ever more steep, and the ten-wheel engine slugged laboriously along the line. McKuen said, “Maybe we’re supposed to give a whistle signal when we get up near the bridge.”

“When we get that close,” Tyreen yelled in reply, “it’ll be too late to stop us.”

He saw a shadow move, and he wheeled. A great bulk loomed atop the coal tender — Saville. Tyreen’s tired face broke into a grin. Saville dropped down on the swaying platform. His face was black from whipping smoke. Tyreen said, “Did you find a gun?”

“No gun,” Saville said, catching his breath. “There was a caboose full of troops. I cut it loose. It’s rolling back down the grade now. I hope they didn’t have a radio in there. David, from up top you can see the tunnel. Maybe a mile, no more. How near ready are we?”

Tyreen said, “Hooker!”

Hooker grunted and kept working. An instant later he threw both arms up like a cowboy in a steer-tying rodeo contest. “Do I fuse it now, Colonel?”

Rapid calculations ran through Tyreen’s head. “Fuse it and stand by to light up. Theodore, get ready to jump.”

Khang tossed his shovel aside and stood behind Saville on the edge of the platform. Tyreen stood at the front of the cab, peering forward, waiting for the tunnel to appear. Hooker was lighting a cigarette, shielding his flame from the wind. The firebox roared. Tyreen said, “Full throttle, Lieutenant.”

“I’m on it,” said McKuen.

The bridge was about a hundred yards long; Tyreen had to time the fuse within that limit. He studied the pitch of the track rolling underneath; he watched the rails curve past monuments of rock and then, suddenly, the tunnel mouth came around the bend a quarter mile ahead.

Hooker said, “Now?”

“Hold it.”

Saville swung back into the cab. Tyreen socked Khang on the arm; Khang made his jump. He was still in the air when Tyreen shouted to McKuen, and McKuen wheeled around the steel wall and leaped away.

Saville stood fast, rocking with the sway of the engine, and Tyreen bellowed furiously at him, “Get the hell out of the way!”

With a half-sheepish grin the big man put the slabs of his hands on the rails and swung down. He waited a moment longer, and jumped.

The tunnel grew large and black. Machine gun snouts started to turn in sealed bunkers. Tyreen held his hand up. Hooker had his burning cigarette in his hand, six inches from the fuse.

The hot black engine brawled up the rails, and Tyreen saw machine gun muzzles turning slowly, uncertainly, following the engine. One hundred yards, eighty yards, and Tyreen roared, “Now!”

The cigarette stabbed against the cable; fuse sputtered. Hooker held the cigarette against the fuse, calmly insuring that the spark was full. Sixty yards, fifty.

Tyreen bent down to yell. “Never mind. Jump. Go!” He swiveled back onto the platform. Hooker made a racing start, plunged past him through the opening, and was gone. Tyreen had a last glimpse of the sizzling fuse. The fierce glare of the firebox half blinded him. He dropped both feet to the outside steps and launched himself from the engine.

The ground sped forward under him. It tripped him, rolled him down; he sprawled and flipped over and banged his hip and rib cage and right arm. Agony exploded down the whole side of his body. He pedaled his legs and got a toehold on the embankment and sprinted toward the scrub jungle ten yards away from the roadbed. The sound of guns was swallowed in the racket and roar of the train, but a lacing of machine gun bullets kicked dirt against his running legs. The submachine gun slung across his shoulders had cut his collar open, but that was a small hurt in his racked body. He made a fiat dive into the bush and slid along a gravel surface, butting a tree. He crabbed deeper into the brush. Bullets clipped through. He made a sharp turn and crawled swiftly on his belly, dragging his right arm.

Thicker jungle swallowed him, and he stopped with breath hot as a furnace lashing in and out of him. His face lay in the damp red earth; spittle began to pool by his mouth. Blood flowed down his neck. Through the roots he could see one little patch of track with car-trucks rolling over it. The last car came grinding past and then the sound changed, the hollow echoes of the train banging through the tunnel. He closed his eyes.

Tyreen’s ears rang angrily long after the last explosive racket died on the far side of the mountain. He had seen ragged bits of iron and steel careering through the sky above the peak. He spoke with bleak tonelessness:

“It’s done.”

His neck bled slowly. He was bruised from head to foot. He made his way downhill through the altitude-stunted jungle, moving roughly parallel to the railroad tracks.

J. D. Hooker stepped into sight with his gun muzzle dipped. He was filthy; he moved with the slow stiffness of a badly punished body. His hostile eyes reflected the smoky daylight. Tyreen walked forward painfully, tramping his flickering shadow into the ground.

A feeling of cold struck definitely through him. He saw Hooker walking forward, frowning. When Hooker came closer, his lips moved and he spoke with suppressed urgency, but Tyreen did not make out the words. Hooker broke into a run across the intervening five yards; Hooker’s voice jumped at him:

“Down!” And Hooker’s solid body smashed into him, carrying him down flat.

His vision was filled with the pale clenching of Hooker’s jaws, the lift of Hooker’s ugly gun. Tyreen swiveled his head. Sergeant Khang was plowing forward, coming the same way Hooker had come, and back the other way a flat-helmeted figure weaved through the trees. Hooker’s gun opened up just above Tyreen’s face, blasting his eardrums intolerably. Khang shouted something and went past on the run.

Tyreen rolled over. “Wait, you fool!” He climbed to his feet and went after Khang.

Khang swung through the trees, and a single rifle shot boomed. Khang wheeled and started shooting. His face leered furiously. Hooker commenced fire, and a body crashed down among the trees somewhere nearby. The soldier in Tyreen’s view weaved in and out of sight, never giving him a clear shot. Tyreen heard the man fire. He saw Khang’s running body spill and crash into a tree.

Tyreen ducked aside and let go a coolly aimed hurst at the soldier. The soldier ducked back into thicker trees. Hooker was shouting steadily. Khang got up, hurt, and began to retreat. Tyreen gave him covering fire. Khang limped along and dropped flat beside Tyreen.

“What the hell was that for, Sergeant?”

Figures ran through the shadows. Khang said, “I want to get my licks in, too, Colonel. It’s my Goddamn country.”

“Where’s that bullet?”

“Hipbone, I guess. It don’t hurt.”

Sunlight flashed on a gun barrel, and Tyreen fired at it. The gun blew powdersmoke back in his face. He latched the gun open to feed in a new magazine; he cut his palm on the sharp bolt-handle. His hand started to bleed. Hooker was no longer in sight; he had backed away. Someone spoke a warning, and Theodore Saville ran into the district, firing three brief bursts. Saville’s right cheek was bruised an angry red. “The place is crawling with them.”

“Come on.” Tyreen got to his knees and looked down at Khang.

Khang’s expression, loose and faded and blind, was plain enough evidence that he was dead.

Unable to believe it, Tyreen turned him over. Two wounds bled in Khang’s side: the hip and the left ribs, high up. “He didn’t even feel that one.” The bleeding stopped as he watched.

“Let’s go, David,” Saville said gently.

The closeness of death laid a frost on Tyreen’s nerves. He stooped to swing Khang’s arm over his shoulder and started to lift Khang when gunfire erupted in the woods and he heard wood splintering and the audible whip of slugs going by.

“Leave him,” Saville snapped.

Tyreen got up and searched the woods. Rage engulfed him. He found a hostile gunner and put a burst in that direction, pinning the man down.

Fifty yards away, J. D. Hooker stood, his squat frame blocking an opening between trees. His braced gun talked in harsh signals. Echoes slammed back and forth against the slopes. Tyreen started to make his run, with Saville on his heels. Hooker kept shooting, covering their run; hostile bullets buzzed through the forest. Everything was sharp and clear; the unfriendly glare of the half-clouded sky beat against his eyes. Hooker stood with his shoulders jammed between trees, his face lifted violently and his chopper chugging out ammunition. His feet were spread the width of the opening; his hands were like vises on the gun.

Something struck Tyreen a sharp blow in the shoulder blade. He felt his legs give way; he was halfway to the ground when a giant arm swept him up. His face turned an arc through the air; he felt himself being overturned. Saville’s big shoulder butted into the pit of his stomach and Saville ran on, carrying him that way over one shoulder.

They came past Hooker, and Hooker said crankily, “You people coming? Or do we wait and have tea?”

“You’re punchy,” Saville told him.

“What about the peckerhead?”

“He’s dead.”

“I didn’t figure you’d leave him, otherwise,” Hooker said grudgingly. He snapped his gun up past Saville’s thigh, but held his fire: “Lieutenant McKuen. That damn fool — what’s he think he’s doing?”

“Go after him.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll catch up. Go on.”

Tyreen heard the talk through a veil of red agony. The big shoulder rocked under him while they pushed downslope through the jungle; Tyreen could hear Hooker plunging ahead and Saville, carrying Tyreen’s weight, was keeping up. A blast of fire echoed behind them, and Saville made a ponderous turn to answer it. The gun ran empty, and Saville threw it aside. “Hang on, David,” he said, and broke into a run.

A gun hammered ahead of them, offering cover. Tyreen could see nothing but the ground lurching past underneath. Dizzy waves washed through him; red curtains opened and closed across his eyes. There was a distant rattle of automatic rifle fire, an answering volley from somewhere ahead, and then another gun opened up closer by, off to the left. Tyreen felt Saville jerk under him. The big man halted for a moment, and Tyreen heard the sawing sigh of his breath. Then Saville picked up the pace again. Tyreen tried to speak; finally he husked out the words: “Are you hurt?”

Saville made no answer. He ran at sprint-pace, dodging trees. McKuen was up there, shouting something. Saville started to slow down; his pace became uneven. Tyreen said, “For Christ’s sake, put me down.” Saville kept lumbering on. Tyreen heard Hooker calling to McKuen:

“The Captain’s hit.”

Boots pounded the earth, and there was a surge of gunfire. Saville moved on, staggering, and finally the splendid body faltered. Saville went to his knees and coughed. Tyreen broke the man’s hold on him and fell away. When he rolled upright, he saw Saville pitching slowly forward like a falling redwood. He had a stitching of wounds across his belly and chest. Tyreen spoke and reached out, but Saville was dead before he fell.

Hooker plunged forward. Tyreen heard him dimly: “Jesus — Jesus. He was dead a quarter-mile back. And he got this far!”

There was a ragged after-volley of fire. McKuen spoke somewhere in the thickening fog: “They’ve lost us. Running around with their bloody noses to the ground.”

Tyreen pried his eyes wide open and burned a path through dizzy mists. He stared at the mound of Theodore Saville’s body. Another life guttered out. By a terrible effort of will, he got on his feet and lifted his hand in a slow salute. He held the salute until McKuen grabbed him by the arm. He shook McKuen off savagely; he turned and tried to explain:

“He was a friend of mine.”

“Sure,” McKuen said. “Let’s find some cover and bandage you up before you irrigate the whole bloody mountainside.”

Tyreen opened his mouth to speak. A red blanket climbed up over the surfaces of his eyes. It turned black, and he lost his balance. He did not feel himself fall.

After dark they found a lonely fisherman poling a sampan down the river toward the sea. J. D. Hooker threw the fisherman overboard, and McKuen placed Colonel Tyreen gently in the bow and watched the angry fisherman swim to shore. He climbed over the gunwales and watched Hooker take the pole. McKuen was tired and hungry and scratched-up, bruised and banged-around. Hooker’s face was sour, and he had nothing to say until McKuen said, “Seems a bleedin’ shame to bust down such a pretty bridge, now I think of it.”

“Christ,” Hooker replied.

Tyreen heard their talk vaguely. He twisted his head. Water lapped the bow. His ears rang, and he felt afloat on a feather cushion. He said drowsily, “McKuen.”

“Sir.”

“Map in my pocket pouch. Rendezvous with the submarine at coordinates HL385748. Midnight.”

“Holy Mother of God. How d’you remember that after all we’ve suffered?”

“It’s my job, Lieutenant.”

“Colonel,” said McKuen, “you are a bastard and a son of a bitch and a fine figure of a man.”

There was no more talk for a while. Hooker’s long pole squelched in and out of the mud bottom. The sampan swayed, and Tyreen lay half awake, buoyed up on a cushion of morphine. He heard McKuen say, “It took a bloody long time to build that bridge, and a couple of stinking seconds to wipe it all out.”

Just like Theodore, Tyreen thought. Just like any of them. He thought vaguely about McKuen. McKuen had been battered and shocked; he had seen it all, he had ridden the tiger; but McKuen was innocent. What he had lived through seemed to have failed to touch his soul. Dig down, Tyreen thought, and underneath McKuen’s Irish skin you would find a solid armor of innocence.

It was the same with Hooker. Hooker said, “My time’s up in a few days. Ain’t gonna see me for grease. I only learned one thing in this Army. If you can move it, pick it up. If you can’t move it, paint it. And if it moves by itself, salute it.”

McKuen laughed. “I never heard you make a joke before, Sergeant.”

“You think that’s a Goddamn joke, Lieutenant? Listen, I get back and you know what they’ll do to me? Court-martial me and throw the book at me. That’s what I lived through this for. You tell me why it was that Captain Saville bought one, and I didn’t. You tell me that, Lieutenant.”

McKuen answered, “There is no rest for the wicked, Sergeant.”

Tyreen thought about Eddie Kreizler. He was still thinking about what Kreizler had said when they reached the delta and Hooker poled silently into the ocean tide. McKuen watched his compass and gave quiet directions. It began to rain lightly. Tyreen lay in the bottom of the sampan and listened to water splash around in the hull. His feet were puffy and splitting. His lips pushed rhythmically out and down; his fevered eyes burned. He thought about a desk job in the States. He thought about his ex-wife and all the dead men who littered his backtrail. McKuen sat softly talking, making jokes; in time he ran out of things to say and sat brooding out onto the sea. Small waves rocked the sampan. A piece of a smile shaped Tyreen’s mouth, and his body loosened; strain ran out of him as though he had pulled a drainplug.

Hooker said, “It’s past midnight, Lieutenant.” And Hooker started cursing.

Tyreen looked around. “Shut up, Hooker.”

“Colonel, all the past two days you been doing nothing but telling me to shut up. If you’re court-martialing me anyway, I figure to hell with you.”

“Hooker, there wouldn’t be any point at all in court-martialing you.”

“Huh?”

“Go home, Hooker,” Tyreen said.

“Well, I—” Hooker shook his head. “I’d do that, sir, if that Goddamn puking submarine would show up. Trust the fat-ass Navy not to be here. Bastard sailor boys.”

McKuen was chuckling, and Hooker said, “Okay. Goddamn it, I’ll shut up. I’ll shut up, Colonel.”

Tyreen scratched his unshaven chin. In the plum-colored night, rain was a gentle whisper of droplets. Tyreen thought, Mission accomplished.

The General could put that in the record books.

The inflated Navy raft came out of the rain and picked them up at 0012 hours.