The Last Bridge

Chapter Twenty-seven 1115 Hours

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.”