Conspiracy

30

By now, the rifle fire in the distance had stopped. Dean decided it was worth the risk to save time by taking the trail, doubling back to the sniping position to make sure Longbow hadn’t returned. When Dean saw the nest was empty, he went back down, circling away from the trail and then paralleling it as he slowly worked toward the spot where Longbow would have gone for water.

It took Dean nearly an hour to find the first body. He couldn’t be positive, but he guessed from the clothes that it belonged to one of the men he’d let go past him on the trail.

Even in death, the man clutched his AK-47 so tightly Dean had to use a knife to pry it from the man’s hands. Dean took two magazines from the guerilla’s body, tucking them into his pockets before continuing across the ridge.

While the vegetation here was sparse, there were still plenty of places to hide, and Dean had to stop every few minutes to search the terrain and listen for movement. The impulse to rush to his friend’s aid felt like a dog growling at his side, nudging him forward. But moving too quickly could get Dean killed, and he struggled to keep his emotions and adrenaline in check.

It took a good twenty minutes to find the second man. He lay a hundred and fifty yards from the first, curled in a fetal position, huddled around his gun. The top part of his head had been split open by one of the M14’s bullets, revealing an oozing black mass where his scalp and forehead had been.

Though hardened to death, Dean had to turn away as he searched the body for ammo and anything else that might be useful.

A third Vietnamese guerilla had died a few yards away.

He was a small man, barely five feet, and thin; his chest and back were pockmarked with bullets. It had taken six to put him down for good.

Dean found Longbow next.

Longbow’s bush hat had been blown off during the battle, and it lay like a discarded rag in the pebbles near the water hole. The soldier lay on his side a yard and a half away, the M14 leaning against his body, as if it had been propped there.

Dean bent down on one knee, looking at his friend’s face, hoping that he would be breathing, not believing what he knew was true. Longbow stared back at Dean, his expression twisting pain and bewilderment together.

Was he asking where Dean was when he needed him?

A shot ricocheted across the nearby rocks and into the water. Dean threw himself flat, smacking his rib on the butt of the AK-47 he’d been holding. He rolled right as another shot ripped through the ground nearby. Dean pulled the automatic rifle up and fired off a burst before jumping to his feet and running in search of cover.

There was no answering fire, but he knew he hadn’t hit his enemy. The guerilla was firing from behind a large clump of jungle grass and rocks about fifty yards away. Dean decided that his best bet was retreating downhill, then circling back to flank the guerilla from the slope of the nearby ridge. The hardest part was the first twenty feet — under heavy fire, Dean climbed up the side of a large boulder, squeezed through a tumble of rocks, then crawled through a cluster of brush. His enemy emptied his rifle in the few seconds it took for Dean to reach safety.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, Dean reached a point where he could look down on the guerilla’s position. It was empty.

Bent grass showed the way he had gone.

By now tired, hungry, and thirsty, Dean considered whether it might not be better to let the man go. Probably it was, but logic didn’t rule Dean that day. He slipped down the rocks and moved as quietly as he could into the thick vegetation.

He nearly tripped over the guerilla, who’d collapsed only a few yards from the grass where he’d fired from earlier. He was wounded but still alive.

Dean saw the man’s body heave right before he fired point-blank into the bastard’s head.

“Are you awake?”

Dean opened his right eye warily. The man sitting next to him on the plane smiled awkwardly. A stewardess stood behind him.

“Are you awake?” she repeated.

“Yeah,” said Dean, straightening.

“We’re about to serve breakfast.”

“Sure.”

He rubbed his eyes, then accepted a cup of coffee. The stewardess passed him a plate of French toast.

“I find it impossible to sleep on a plane,” said the man next to him. “Even in first class.”

“I usually don’t sleep that well myself,” said Dean. He cut up the wedges of bread, wondering when he had fallen asleep. He drained his cup of coffee and asked for another, trying to purge his memory of the look on Longbow’s face.