The Last Bridge

Chapter Forty-six 1015 Hours

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.”