Without Remorse

CHAPTER 29

Last Out

There was a vicarious exhilaration in watching them. The twenty-five Marines worked out, finishing with a single-file run that looped around the helicopters parked oft the deck. Sailors looked on quietly. The word was out now. The sea sled had been seen by too many, and like professional intelligence officers, sailors at their mess tables assembled the few facts and garnished them with speculation. The Marines were going into the North. After what, nobody knew, but everyone wondered. Maybe to trash a missile site and bring back some important piece of hardware. Maybe to take down a bridge, but most likely the target was human. The Vietnamese party bosses, perhaps.

'Prisoners,' a bosun's mate third-class said, finishing his hamburger, called a 'slider' in the Navy. 'It's gotta be,' he added, motioning his head to the newly arrived medical corpsmen who ate at their own isolated table. 'Six corpsmen, four doctors, awful lot of talent, guys. What d'ya suppose they're here for?'

'Jesus,' another sailor observed, sipping at his milk. 'You're right, man.'

'Feather in our cap if it comes off,' noted another.

'Dirty weather tonight,' a quartermaster put in. 'The fleet-weather chief was smiling about it - and I seen him puke his guts out last night. I guess he can't handle anything smaller'n a carrier.' USS Ogden did have an odd ride, which resulted from her configuration, and running broadside to the gusting westerly winds had only worsened it. It was always entertaining to see a chief petty officer lose his lunch - dinner in this case - and a man was unlikely to be happy about weather conditions that made him ill. There had to be a reason for it. The conclusion was obvious, and the sort of thing to make a security officer despair.

'Jesus, I hope they make it.'

'Let's get the flight deck fodded again,' the junior bosun suggested. Heads nodded at once. A work gang was quickly assembled. Within an hour there would be not so much as a matchstick on the black no-skid surface.

'Good bunch of kids, Captain,' Dutch Maxwell observed, watching the walkdown from the starboard wing of the bridge. Every so often a man would bend down and pick up something, a foreign object that might destroy an engine, a result called FOD, for 'foreign-object damage.' Whatever might go wrong tonight, the men were promising with their actions, it wouldn't be the fault of their ship.

'Lots of college kids,' Franks replied, proudly watching his men. 'Sometimes I think the deck division's as smart as my wardroom.' Which was an entirely forgivable hyperbole. He wanted to say something else, the same thing that everyone was thinking: What do you suppose the chances are? He didn't voice the thought. It would be the worst kind of bad luck. Even thinking it loudly might harm the mission, but hard as he tried he couldn't stop his mind from forming the words.

In their quarters, the Marines were assembled around a sand-table model of the objective. They'd already gone over the mission once and were doing so again. The process would be repeated once more before lunch, and many times after it, as a whole group and as individual teams. Each man could see everything with his eyes closed, thinking back to the training site at Quantico, reliving the live-fire exercises.

'Captain Albie, sir?' A yeoman came into the compartment. He handed over a clipboard. 'Message from Mr Snake.'

The Captain of Marines grinned. 'Thanks, sailor. You read it?'

The yeoman actually blushed. 'Beg pardon, sir. Yes, I did. Everything's cool.' He hesitated for the moment before adding a dispatch of his own. 'Sir, my department says good luck. Kick some ass, sir.'

'You know, skipper,' Sergeant Irvin said as the yeoman left the space, 'I may never be able to punch out a swabbie again.'

Albie read the dispatch. 'People, our friend is in place. He counts forty-four guards, four officers, one Russian. Normal duty routine, nothing unusual is happening there.' The young captain looked up. "That's it, Marines. We're going in tonight.'

One of the younger Marines reached in his pocket and pulled out a large rubber band. He broke it, marked two eyes on it with his pen, and dropped it atop what they now called Snake Hill. 'That dude,' he said to his team-mates, 'is one cool motherfucker.'

'Y'all remember now,' Irvin warned loudly. 'You fire-support guys remember, he's gonna be pounding down that hill soon as we show up. It wouldn't do to shoot his ass.'

'No prob', Gunny,' the fire-team leader said.

'Marines, let's get some chow. I want you people to rest up this afternoon. Eat your veggies. We want our eyes to work in the dark. Weapons stripped and cleaned for inspection at seventeen-hun'rd,' Albie told them. 'Y'all know what this is all about. Let's stay real cool and we'll get it done.' It was his time to meet again with the chopper crews for a final look at the insertion and extraction plans.

'Aye aye, sir,' Irvin said for the men.

'Hello, Robin.'

'Hi, Kolya,' Zacharias said weakly.

'I'm still working on better food.'

'Would be nice,' the American acknowledged.

'Try this.' Grishanov handed over some black bread his wife had sent him. The climate had already started to put mold on it, which Kolya had trimmed off with a knife. The American wolfed it down anyway. A sip from the Russian's flask helped.

'I'll turn you into a Russian,' the Soviet Air Force colonel said with an unguarded chuckle. 'Vodka and good bread go together. I would like to show you my country.' Just to plant the seed of the idea, in a friendly way, as one man talks to another.

'I have a family, Kolya. God willing -'

'Yes, Robin, God willing.' Or North Vietnam willing, or the Soviet Union willing. Or someone. Somehow he'd save this man, and the others. So many were friends now. He knew so much about them, their marriages, good and bad, their children, their hopes and dreams. These Americans were so strange, so open. 'Also, God willing, if the Chinese decide to bomb Moscow, I have a plan now to stop them.' He unfolded the map and set it on the floor. It was the result of all his talks with this American colleague, everything he had learned and analyzed formulated on a single sheet of paper. Grishanov was quite proud of it, not the least because it was the clear presentation of a highly sophisticated operational concept.

Zacharias ran his fingers over it, reading the notations in English, which looked incongruous on a map whose legend was in Cyrillic. He smiled his approval. A bright guy, Kolya, a good student in his way. The way he layered his assets, the way he had his aircraft patrolling back rather than forward. He understood defense in depth now. SAM traps at the ends of the most likely mountain passes, positioned for maximum surprise. Kolya was thinking like a bomber pilot now instead of a fighter jock. That was the first step in understanding how it was done. If every Russian PVO commander understood how to do this, then SAC would have one miserable time...

Dear God. Robin's hands stopped moving.

This wasn't about the ChiComs at all.

Zacharias looked up, and his face revealed his thought even before he found the strength to speak.

'How many Badgers do the Chinese have?'

'Now? Twenty-five. They are trying to build more.'

'You can expand on everything I've told you.'

'We'll have to, as they build up their force, Robin. I've told you that,' Grishanov said quickly and quietly, but it was too late, he saw, at least in one respect.

'I've told you everything,' the American said, looking down at the map. Then his eyes closed and his shoulders shook. Grishanov embraced him to ease the pain he saw.

'Robin, you've told me how to protect the children of my country. I have not lied to you. My father did leave his university to fight the Germans. I did have to evacuate Moscow as a child. I did lose friends that winter in the snow - little boys and little girls, Robin, children who froze to death. It did happen. I did see it.'

'And I did betray my country,' Zacharias whispered The realization had come with the speed and violence of a falling bomb. How could he have been so blind, so stupid? Robin leaned back, feeling a sudden pain in his chest, and in that moment he prayed it was a heart attack, for the first time in his life wishing for death. But it wasn't. It was just a contraction of his stomach and the release of a large quantity of acid, just the perfect thing, really, to eat away at his stomach as his mind ate away the defenses of his soul. He'd broken faith with his country and his God. He was damned.

'My friend -'

'You used me!' Robin hissed, trying to pull away.

'Robin, you must listen to me.' Grishanov wouldn't let go. 'I love my country, Robin, as you love yours. I have sworn an oath to defend her. I have never lied to you about that, and now it is time for you to learn other things.' Robin had to understand. Kolya had to make it clear to Zacharias, as Robin had made so many things clear to Kolya.

'Like what?'

'Robin, you are a dead man. The Vietnamese have reported you dead to your country. You will never be allowed to return home. That is why you are not in the prison- Hoa Lo, the Hilton, your people call it, yes?' It seared Kolya's soul when Robin looked at him, the accusation there was almost more than he could bear. When be spoke again, his voice was the one doing the pleading.

'What you are thinking is wrong. I have begged my superiors to let me save your life. I swear this on the lives of my children: Iwill not let you die. You cannot go back to America. I will make for you a new home. You will be able to fly again, Robin! You will have a new life. I can do no more than that. If I could restore you to your Ellen and your children, I would do it. I am not a monster, Robin, I am a man, like you. I have a country, like you. I have a family, like you. In the name of your God, man, put yourself in my place. What would you have done in my place? What would you feel in my place?' There was no reply beyond a sob of shame and despair.

'Would you have me let them torture you? I can do that. Six men in this camp have died, did you know that? Six men died before I came here. I put a stop toit! Only one has died since my arrival - only one, and I wept for him, Robin, did you know that! I would gladly kill Major Vinh, the little fascist. Ihave saved you! I've done everything in my power, and I have begged for more. I give you my own food, Robin, things that my Marina sends to me!'

'And I've told you how to kill American pilots - '

'Only if they attack my country can I hurt them. Only if they try to kill my people, Robin! Only then! Do you wish them to kill my family?'

'It's not like that!'

'Yes, it is. Don't you see? This is not a game, Robin. We are in the business of death, you and I, and to save lives one must also take them;'

Perhaps he'd see it in time, Grishanov hoped. He was a bright man, a rational man. Once he had time to examine the facts, he would see that life was better than death, and perhaps they could again be friends. For the moment, Kolya told himself, I have saved the man's life. Even if the Americancursesme for that, he will have to breathe air to speak his curse. Colonel Grishanov would bear that burden with pride. He'd gotten his information and saved a life in the process, as was entirely proper for an air-defense pilot of PVO Strany who'd sworn his life's real oath as a frightened and disoriented boy on his way from Moscow to Gorkiy.

The Russian came out of the prison block in time for dinner, Kelly saw. He had a notebook in his hands, doubtless full of the information he'd sweated out of the prisoners.

'We're going to get your sorry red ass,' Kelly whispered to himself. 'They're gonna put three willie-petes through that window, pal, and cook you up for dinner - along with all your fucking notes. Yeah.'

He could feel it now. It was, again, the private pleasure of knowing what would be, the godlike satisfaction of seeing the future. He took a sip from his canteen. He couldn't afford to dehydrate. Patience came hard now. Within his sight was a building with twenty lonely, frightened, and badly hurt Americans, and though he'd never met any of them, and though he only knew one by name, his was a worthy quest. For the rest, he tried to find the Latin from his high school: Morituri??? cognant, perhaps. Those who are about to die - just don't know. Which was just fine with Kelly.

'Homicide.'

'Hi, I'm trying to get Lieutenant Frank Allen.'

'You got him,' Allen replied. He'd been at his desk just five minutes this Monday morning. 'Who's this?'

'Sergeant Pete Meyer, Pittsburgh,' the voice replied. 'Captain Dooley referred me to you, sir.'

'I haven't talked to Mike in a while. Is he still a Pirates fan?'

'Every night, Lieutenant. I try to catch some of the games myself.'

'You want a line on the Series, Sarge?' Allen asked with a grin. Cop fellowship.

'Bucs in five. Roberto's real tough this year.' Clemente was having a career year.

'Oh, yeah? Well, so are Brooks and Frank.' The Robinsons weren't doing so badly either. 'What can I do for you?'

'Lieutenant, I have some information for you. Two homicides, both victims female, in their late teens, early twenties.'

'Back up, please.' Allen got a clean sheet of paper. 'Who's your source?'

'I can't reveal that yet. It's privileged. I'm working on changing that, but it might take a while. Can I go on?'

'Very well. Names of victims?'

'The recent one was named Pamela Madden - very recent, only a few weeks ago.'

Lieutenant Allen's eyes went wide. 'Jesus - the fountain murder. And the other one?'

'Her name was Helen, sometime last fall. Both murders were ugly, Lieutenant, torture and sexual abuse.'

Allen hunched forward with the phone very close to his ear. 'You telling me you have a witness to both killings?'

'That is correct, sir, I believe we do. I got two likely perps for you, too. Two white males, one named Billy and the other named Rick. No descriptions, but I can work on that, too.'

'Okay, they're not my cases. It's being handled downtown - Lieutenant Ryan and Sergeant Douglas. I know both names - both victims, I mean. These are high-profile cases, Sarge. How solid is your information?'

'I believe it to be very solid. I have one possible indicator for you. Victim number two, Pamela Madden - her hair was brushed out after she was killed.'

In every major criminal case, several important pieces of evidence were always left out of press accounts in order to screen out the usual collection of nuts who called in to confess to something - anything that struck their twisted fancies. This thing with the hair was sufficiently protected that even Lieutenant Allen didn't know about it.

'What else do yon have?'

'The murders were drug-related. Both girls were mules.'

'Bingo!' Allen exclaimed quietly. 'Is your source in jail or what?'

'I'm pushing the edge here, but - okay, I'll level with you. My dad's a preacher. He's counseling the girl. Lieutenant, this is really off-the-record stuff, okay?'

'I understand. What do you want me to do?'

'Could you please forward the info to the investigating officers? They can contact me through the station.' Sergeant Meyer gave over his number. 'I'm a watch supervisor here, and I have to roll out now to deliver a lecture at the academy. I'll be back about four.'

'Very well, sergeant. I'll pass that along. Thanks a lot for the input. You'll be hearing from Em and Tom. Depend on it.' Jesus, we'd give Pittsburgh the fuckin' Series to bag these bastards. Allen switched buttons on his phone.

'Hey, Frank,' Lieutenant Ryan said. When he set his coffee cup down, it appeared like slow-motion. That stopped when he picked up a pen. 'Keep talking. I'm writing this down.'

Sergeant Douglas was late this morning because of an accident on 1-83. He came in with his usual coffee and danish to see his boss scribbling furiously.

'Brushed out the hair? He said that?' Ryan asked. Douglas leaned across the desk, and the look in Ryan's eyes was like that of a hunter who just heard the first rustle in the leaves. 'Okay, what names did he -' The detective's hand balled into a fist. A long breath. 'Okay, Frank, where is this guy? Thanks. 'Bye.'

'Break?'

'Pittsburgh,' Ryan said.

'Huh?'

'Call from a police sergeant in Pittsburgh, a possible witness in the murders of Pamela Madden and Helen Waters.'

'No shit?'

'This is the one who brushed her hair, Tom. And guess what other names came along with it?'

'Richard Farmer and William Grayson?'

'Rick and Billy. Close enough? Possible mule for a drug ring. Wait... ' Ryan leaned back, staring at the yellowed ceiling. 'There was a girl there when Farmer was killed - we think there was,' he corrected himself. 'It's the connection, Tom. Pamela Madden, Helen Waters, Farmer, Grayson, they're all related... and that means -'

'The pushers, too. All connected somehow. What connects them, Em? We know they were all - probably all - in the drug business.'

'Two different MOs, Tom. The girls were slaughtered like - no, you don't even do that to cattle. All the rest, though, all of them were taken down by the Invisible Man. Man on a mission! That's what Farber said, a man on a mission.'

'Revenge,' Douglas said, pacing Ryan's analysis on his own. 'If one of those girls was close to me - Jesus, Em, who could blame him?'

There was only one person connected with either murder who'd been close with a victim, and he was known to the police department, wasn't he? Ryan grabbed his phone and called back to Lieutenant Allen.

'Frank, what was the name of that guy who worked the Gooding case, the Navy gay?'

'Kelly, John Kelly, he found the gun off Fork McHenry, then downtown contracted him to train our divers, remember? Oh! Pamela Madden! Jesus!' Allen exclaimed when the connection became clear.

'Tell me about him, Frank.'

'Hell of a nice guy. Quiet, kinda sad - lost his wife, auto accident or something.'

'Veteran, right?'

'Frogman, underwater demolitions. That's how he earns his living, blowing things up. Underwater stuff, like.'

'Keep going.'

'Physically he's pretty tough, takes care of himself.' Allen paused. 'I saw him dive, there's some marks on him, scars, I mean. He's seen combat and caught some fire. I got his address and all if you want.'

'I have it in my case file, Frank. Thanks, buddy.' Ryan hung up. 'He's our guy. He's the Invisible Man.'

'Kelly?'

'I have to, be in court this morning - damn it!' Ryan swore.

'Nice to see you again,' Dr Farber said. Monday was an easy day for him. He'd seen his last patient of the day and was heading out for after-lunch tennis with his sons. The cops had barely caught him heading out of his office.

'What do you know about UDT guys?' Ryan asked, walking out into the corridor with him.

'Frogmen, you mean? Navy?'

'That right. Tough, are they?'

Farber grinned around his pipe. 'They're the first guys on the beach, ahead of the Marines. What do you think?' He paused. Something clicked in his mind. 'There's something even better now.'

'What do you mean?' the detective lieutenant asked.

'Well, I still do a little work for the Pentagon. Hopkins does a lot of things for the government. Applied Physics Lab, lots of special things. You know my background.' He paused. 'Sometimes I do psychological testing, consulting - what combat does to people. This is classified material, right? There's a new special-operations group. It's a spin-off of UDT. They call them SEALs now, for Sea Air Land - they're commandos, real serious folks, and their existence is not widely known. Not just tough. Smart. They're trained to think, to plan ahead. Not just muscle. Brains, too.'

'Tattoo,' Douglas said, remembering. 'He has a tattoo of a seal on his arm.'

'Doc, what if one of these SEAL guys had a girl who was brutally murdered?' It was the most obvious of questions, but he had to ask it.

'That's the mission you were looking for,' Farber said, heading out the door, unwilling to reveal anything else, even for a murder investigation.

'That's our boy. Except for one thing,' Ryan said quietly to the closed door. 'Yeah. No evidence. Just one hell of a motive.'

Nightfall. It had been a dreary day for everyone at sender green except for Kelly. The parade ground was mush, with fetid puddles, large and small. The soldiers had spent most of the day trying to keep dry. Those in the towers had adjusted their position to the shifting winds. Weather like this did things to people. Most humans didn't like being wet. It made them irritable and dull of mind, all the more so if their duty was also boring, as it was here. In North Vietnam, weather like this meant fewer air attacks, yet another reason for the men down below to relax. The increasing heat of the day had energized the clouds, adding moisture to them which the clouds just as quickly gave back to the ground.

What a shitty day, all the guards would be saying to one another over their dinner. All would nod and concentrate on their meals, looking down, not up, looking inward, not outward. The woods would be damp. It was far quieter to walk on wet leaves than dry ones. No dry twigs to snap. The humid air would muffle sound, not transmit it. It was, in a word, perfect.

Kelly took the opportunity of the darkness to move around some, stiff from the inactivity. He sat up under his bush, brushing off his skin and eating more of his ration concentrates. He drained down a full canteen, then stretched his arms and legs. He could see the LZ, and had already selected his path to it, hoping the Marines wouldn't be trigger-happy when he ran down towards them. At twenty-one hundred he made his final radio transmission.

Light Green, the technician wrote on his pad. Activity Normal.

'That's it. That's the last thing we need.' Maxwell looked at the others. Everyone nodded.

'Operation boxwood green, Phase Four, commences at twenty-two hundred. Captain Franks, make signal to Newport News.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

On Ogden, flight crews dressed in their fire-protective suits, then walked aft to preflight their aircraft. They found sailors wiping all the windows. In the troop spaces, the Marines were donning their striped utilities. Weapons were clean. Magazines were full with fresh ammo just taken from airtight containers. The individual grunts paired off, each man applying camouflage paint to his counterpart. No smiles or joking now. They were as serious as actors on opening night, and the delicacy of the makeup work gave a strange counterpoint to the nature of the evening's performance. Except for one of their number.

'Easy on the eye shadow, sir,' Irvin told a somewhat jumpy Captain Albie, who had the usual commander's jitters and needed a sergeant to steady him down.

In the squadron ready room aboard USS Constellation, a diminutive and young squadron commander named Joshua Painter led the briefing. He had eight F-4 Phantoms loaded for bear.

'We're covering a special operation tonight. Our targets are SAM sites south of Haiphong,' he went on, not knowing what it was all about, hoping that it was worth the risk of the fifteen officers who would fly with him tonight, and that was just his squadron. Ten A-6 Intruders were also flying Iron Hand, and most of the rest of Connie 's air wing would trail their coats up the coast, throwing as much electronic noise into the air as they could. He hoped it was all as important as Admiral Podulski had said. Playing games with SAM sites wasn't exactly fun.

Newport News was twenty-five miles off the coast now, approaching a point that would put her exactly between Ogden and the beach. Her radars were off, and the shore stations probably didn't know quite where she was. After the last few days the NVA were getting a little more circumspect about using their coastal surveillance systems. The Captain was sitting in his bridge chair. He checked his watch and opened a sealed manila envelope, reading quickly through the action orders he'd had in his safe for two weeks.

'Hmm,' he said to himself. Then: 'Mr Shoeman, have engineering bring boilers one and four fully on line. I want full power available as soon as possible. We're doing some more surfing tonight. My compliments to the XO, gunnery officer, and his chiefs. I want them in my at-sea cabin at once.'

'Aye, sir.' The officer of the deck made the necessary notifications. With all four of her boilers on line, Newport News could make thirty-four knots, the quicker to close the beach, and the quicker to depart from it.

'Surf City, here we come!' the petty officer at the wheel sang out loud as soon as the Captain was off the bridge. It was the official ship's joke - because the Captain liked it - actually made up several months before by a seaman first-class. It meant going inshore, right into the surf, for some shooting. 'Goin' to Surf City, where it's two-to-one!'

'Mark your head, Baker,' the OOD called to end the chorus.

'Steady on one-eight-five, Mr Shoeman.' His body moved to the beat. Surf City, here we come!

'Gentlemen, in case you're wondering what we've done to deserve the fun of the past few days, this is it,' the Captain said in his cabin just off the bridge. He explained on for several minutes. On his desk was a map of the coastal area, with every triple-A battery marked from data on aerial and satellite photographs. His gunnery department looked things over. There were plenty of hilltops for good radar references.

'Oh, yeah!' the master chief firecontrolman breathed. 'Sir, everything? Five-inchers, too?'

The skipper nodded. 'Chief Skelley, if we bring any ammo back to Subic, I'm going to be very disappointed with you.'

'Sir, I propose we use number-three five-inch mount for star shell and shoot visually as much as we can.'

It was an exercise in geometry, really. The gunnery experts - that included the commanding officer - leaned across the map and decided quickly how it would be done. Already briefed on the mission, the only change was that they had expected to do it in daylight.

'There won't be anybody left alive to fire on those helos, sir.'

The growler phone on the CO's desk rang. He grabbed it. 'Captain speaking.'

'All four boilers are now on line, sir. Full-speed bell is thirty, flank is thirty-three.'

'Nice to know the ChEng is all awake. Very well. Sound General Quarters.' He hung up the phone as the ship's gong started sounding. 'Gentlemen, we have some Marines to protect,' he said confidently. His cruiser's gunnery department was as fine as Mississippi's had ever been. Two minutes later he was back on the bridge.

'Mr Shoeman, I have the conn.'

'Captain has the conn,' the OOD agreed.

'Right- standard rudder, come to new course two-six-five.'

'Right- standard rudder, aye, come to new course two-six-five, aye.' Petty Officer Sam Baker rotated the wheel. 'Sir, my rudder is right-standard.'

'Very well,' the Captain acknowledged, adding, 'Surf City, here we come!'

'Aye aye, sir!' the helmsman hooted back. The skipper was really with it for an old fart.

It was the time for nerves now. What could go wrong? Kelly asked himself atop his hill. Lots of things. The helicopters might collide in midair. They might come right over an unknown flak site and be blotted from the sky. Some little widget or seal could let go, crashing them to the ground. What if the local National Guard was having a training exercise tonight? Something was always left to chance. He'd seen missions go wrong for any number of dumb and unpredictable reasons. But not tonight, he promised himself. Not with all this preparation. The helo crews had trained intensively for three weeks, as had the Marines. The birds had been lovingly maintained. The sailors on Ogden had invented helpful things to do. You could never eliminate risk, but preparation and training could attenuate it. Kelly made sure his weapon was in proper shape and stayed in a tight sitting position. This wasn't sitting in a corner house in west Baltimore. This was real. This would enable him to put it all behind. His attempt to save Pam had ended in failure due to his error, but perhaps it had had a purpose after all. He'd made no mistakes for this mission. Nobody had. He wasn't rescuing one person. He was rescuing twenty. He checked the illuminated dial of his watch. The sweep hand was moving so slowly now. Kelly closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them it would move more quickly. It didn't. He knew better. The former Chief of SEALs commanded himself to take a deep breath and continue the mission. For him that meant laying the carbine across his lap and concentrating on his binoculars. His reconnaissance had to continue right to the moment the first M-79 grenades were fired at the guard towers. The Marines were counting on him.

Well, maybe this would show the guys from Philly how important he was. Henry's operation breaks down and I handle things. Eddie Morello is important, he thought, stoking the fires of his own ego as he drove up Route 40 towards Aberdeen.

Idiot can't run his own operation, can't get dependable people. I told Tony he was too smart for his own good, too clever, not really a serious businessman - Oh, no. he's serious. He's more serious than you are, Eddie. Henry is going to be the first niggerto get'made.' You watch. Tony is going to do it. Can't do it for you. Your own cousin can'tdo it for you, after you connected him with Henry. Goddamned deal wouldn't be made except for me. I made the deal but I can't get made.

'Fuck!' he snarled at a red light. Somebody starts taking Henry's operation apart and they ask me to check it out.Like Henry can't figure things oat himself.

Probably can't, not as smart as he thinks he is. So then what - he gets between me and Tony.

That was it, wasn't it? Eddie thought. Henry wanted toseparate me from Piaggi - justlike he got them to take Angelo out. Angelo was his first connection. Angelo introduced him to me... I introduced him to Tony... Tony and I handle the connection with Philly and New York... Angelo and me were a pair of connections... Angelo was the weak one... and Angelo gets whacked...

Tonyand I are another pair of connections...

He only needs one, doesn't he? Just one connection to the rest of the outfit.

Separating me from Tony...

Fuck.

Morello fished in his pocket for a cigarette and punched the lighter on his Cadillac convertible. The top was down. Eddie liked the sun and the wind. It was almost like being out on his fishing boat. It also gave him fine visibility. That it made him somewhat easier to spot and trail hadn't occurred to him. Next to him, on the floor, was a leather attache case. Inside that were six kilos of pure stuff. Philadelphia, they'd told him, was real short, and would handle the cutting themselves. Big cash deal. The identical case that was now southbound would be filled with nothing smaller than twenties. Two guys. Nothing to worry about. They were pros, and this was a long-term business relationship. He didn't have to worry about a rip, but he had his snubby anyway, concealed under his loose shirt, just at his belt buckle, the most useful, most uncomfortable place.

He had to think this one through, Morello told himself urgently. He might just have it all figured out. Henry was manipulating them. Henry was manipulating the outfit. A jig was trying to outthink them.

And succeeding. Probably he whacked his own people. The fuck liked to shit all over women - especially white ones. That figured, Morello thought. They were all like that. Thought he was pretty smart, probably. Well, he was pretty smart. But not smart enough. Not anymore. It wouldn't be hard to explain all of this to Tony. Eddie was sure of that. Make the transfer and drive back. Dinner with Tony. Be calm and reasonable. Tony likes that. Like he went to Harvard or something. Like a damned lawyer. Then we work on Henry and we take over his operation. It was business. His people would play. They weren't in it because they loved him. They were in it for the money. Everybody was. And then he and Tony could take the operation over, and then Eddie Morello would be a made man.

Yeah. He had it all figured out now. Morello checked the time. He was right on as he pulled into the half-empty parking lot of a diner. The old-fashioned kind, made from a railroad car - the Pennsylvania Railroad was close by. He remembered his first meal out of the house with his father, in a place just like this, watching the trains go past. The memory made him smile as he finished the cigarette and flipped it onto the blacktop.

The other car pulled in. It was a blue Oldsmobile, as he'd been led to expect. The two guys got out. One carried an attache case and walked towards him. Eddie didn't know him, but he was well-dressed, respectable, like a businessman should be, in a nice tan suit. Like a lawyer. Morello smiled to himself, not looking too obviously, in his direction while the backup man stayed at the car, watching, just to be on the safe side. Yeah, serious people. And soon they'd know that Eddie Morello was a serious man, too, he thought, with his hand in his lap, six inches from his hidden revolver.

'Got the stuff?'

'Got the money?' Morello asked in return. '

'You made a mistake, Eddie,' the man said without warning as he opened the briefcase.

'What do you mean?' Morello asked, suddenly alert, about ten seconds and a lifetime too late.

'I mean, it's goodbye, Eddie,' he added quietly. The look in his eyes said it all. Morello immediately went for his weapon, but it only helped the other man.

'Police, freeze!' the man shouted just before the first round burst through the opened top of the case.

Eddie got his gun out, just, and managed to fire one round into the floor of his car, but the cop was only three feet away and couldn't possibly miss. The backup officer was already running in, surprised that Lieutenant Charon hadn't been able to get the drop on the guy. As he watched, the attache case fell aside and the detective extended his arm, nearly placing his service revolver on the man's chest and firing straight into his heart.

It was all so clear to Morello now, but only for a second or two. Henry had done it all. He'd made himself, that was it. And Morello knew that his only purpose in life had been to get Henry and Tony together. It didn't seem like much, not now.

'Backup!' Charon screamed over the dying man. He reached down to seize Eddie's revolver. Within a minute two State Police cars screeched into the parking lot

'Damned fool,' Charon told his partner five minutes later, shaking as he did so, as men do after killing. 'He just went for the gun- like I didn't have the drop on him.'

'I saw it all,' the junior detective said, thinking that he had.

'Well, it's just what you said, sir,' the State Police sergeant said. He opened the case from the floor of the Olds. It was filled with bags of heroin. 'Some bust.'

'Yeah,' Charon growled. 'Except dead the dumb fuck can't tell anybody anything.' Which was exactly true. Remarkable, he thought, succeeding in his struggle not to smile at the mad humor of the moment. He'd just committed the perfect murder, under the eyes of other police officers. Now Henry's organization was safe.

Almost time now. The guard had changed. Last time for that. The rain continued to fall steadily. Good. The soldiers in the towers were huddling to stay dry. The dreary day had bored them even more than normal, and bored men were less alert. All the lights were out now. Not even candles in the barracks. Kelly made a slow, careful sweep with his binoculars. There was a human shape in the window of the officers' quarters, a man looking out at the weather - the Russian, wasn't it? Oh, so that's your bedroom! Great: The first shot from grenadier number three - Corporal Mendez, wasn't it? - is programmed for that opening. Fried Russian.

Let's get this one on. I need a shower. God, you suppose they have any more of that Jack Daniel's left? Regs were regs, but some things were special.

The tension was building. It wasn't the danger factor. Kelly deemed himself to be in no danger at all. The scary part had been the insertion. Now it was up to the airedales, then the Marines. His part was almost done, Kelly thought.

'Commence firing,' the Captain ordered.

Newport News had switched her radars on only a few moments earlier. The navigator was in central fire-control, helping the gunnery department to plot the cruiser's exact position by radar fixes on known landmarks. That was being overly careful, but tonight's mission called for it. Now navigation and fire-control radars were helping everyone compute their position to a whisker.

The first rounds off were from the portside five-inch mount. The sharp bark of noise from the twin 5"/38s was very hard on the ears, but along with it came something oddly beautiful. With each shot the guns generated a ring of yellow fire. It was some empirical peculiarity of the weapon that did it. Like a yellow snake chasing its tail, undulating for its few milliseconds of life. Then it vanished. Six thousand yards downrange, the first pair of star shells ignited, and it was the same metallic yellow that had a few seconds earlier decorated the gun mount. The wet, green landscape of North Vietnam turned orange under the light.

'Looks like a fifty-seven-mike-mike mount. I can see the crew, even.' The rangefinder in Spot-1 was already trained into the proper bearing. The light just made it easier. Master Chief Skelley dialed in the range with remarkable delicacy. It was transmitted at once to 'central.' Ten seconds after that, eight guns thundered. Another fifteen, and the triple-A site vanished in a cloud of dust and fire.

'On target with the first salvo. Target Alfa is destroyed.' The master chief took his command from below to shift bearings to the next. Like the Captain he would soon retire. Maybe they could open a gun store.

It was like distant thunder, but not right somehow. The surprising part was the absence of reaction below. Through the binoculars he could see heads turn. Maybe some remarks were exchanged. Nothing more than that. It was a country at war, after all, and unpleasant noises were normal here, especially the kind that sounded like distant thunder. Clearly too far away to be a matter of concern. You couldn't even see any flashes through the weather. Kelly had expected an officer or two to come out and look around. He would have done that in their place - probably. But they didn't. Ninety minutes and counting.

The Marines were lightly loaded as they filed aft. Quite a few sailors were there to watch them. Albie and Irvin counted them off as they headed out onto the flight deck, directing them to their choppers.

The last sailors in line were Maxwell and Podulski. Both were wearing their oldest and most disreputable khakis, shirts and pants they'd worn in command at sea, things associated with good memories and good luck. Even admirals were superstitious. For the first time the Marines saw that the pale Admiral - that's how they thought of him - had the Medal of Honor. The ribbon caught many glances, and quite a few nods of respect that his tense face acknowledged.

'All ready, Captain?' Maxwell asked.

'Yes, sir,' Albie replied calmly over his nervousness. Showtime. 'See you in about three hours.'

'Good hunting.' Maxwell stood ramrod-straight and saluted the younger man.

'They look pretty impressive,' Ritter said. He, too, was wearing khakis, just to fit in with the ship's wardroom. 'Oh, Jesus, I hope this works.'

'Yeah,' James Greer breathed as the ship turned to align herself with the wind. Deck crewmen with lighted wands went to both troop carriers to guide their take-offs, and then, one by one, the big Sikorskys lifted off, steadying themselves in the burble and turning west towards land and the mission. 'It's in their hands now.'

'Good kids, James,' Podulski said.

'That Clark guy is pretty impressive, too. Smart,' Ritter observed. 'What's he do in real life?'

'I gather he's sort of at odds at the moment. Why?'

'We always have room for a guy who can think on his feet. The boy's smart,' Ritter repeated as all headed back to CIC. On the flight deck, the Cobra crews were doing their final preflight checks. They'd get off in forty-five minutes.

'snake, this is cricket. Time check is nominal. Acknowledge.'

'Yes!' Kelly said aloud - but not too loud. He tapped three long dashes on his radio, getting two back. Ogden had just announced that the mission was now running and copied his acknowledgment. 'Two hours to freedom, guys,' he told the prisoners in the camp below. That the event would be less liberating for the other people in the camp was not a matter of grave concern.

Kelly ate his last ration bar, sliding all the wrappers and trash into the thigh pockets of his fatigues. He moved from his hiding place. It was dark now, and he could afford to. Reaching back in, he tried to erase the marks of his presence. A mission like this might be tried again, after all, and why let the other side know anything about how it had happened? The tension finally reached the point that he had to urinate. It was almost funny, and made him feel like a little kid, though he'd drunk half a gallon of water that day.

Thirty minutes' flying time to the first LZ, thirty more for the approach. When they crest the far hill, I go into live contact with them to control the final approach. Let's get it on.

'Shifting fire right. Target Hotel in sight,' Skelly reported. 'Range... nine-two-five-zero.' The guns thundered once more. One of the hundred-millimeter gun mounts was actually firing at them, now. The crew had watched Newport News immolate the rest of their antiaircraft battalion and, unable to desert their guns, they were trying, at least, to fire back and wound the monster that was hovering off their coastline.

'There's the helos,' the XO said at his post in CIC. The blips on the main radar display crossed the coast right over where Targets Alfa and Bravo had been. He lifted the phone.

'Captain here.'

'XO here, sir. The helos are feet-dry, going right up the corridor we made them.'

'Very well. Prepare to stand-down the fire mission. We'll be HIFR-ing those helos in thirty minutes. Keep a very sharp eye on that radar, X.'

'Aye, sir.'

'Jesus,' a radar operator observed. 'What's going on here?'

'First we shoot their ass,' his neighbor opined, 'then we invade their ass.'

Only minutes now until the Marines were on the ground. The rain remained steady though the wind had died down.

Kelly was in the open now. It was safe. He wasn't skylined. There was ample flora behind him. All of his clothing and exposed skin was colored to blend in. His eyes were sweeping everywhere, searching for danger, for something unusual, finding nothing. It was muddy as hell. The wet and the red clay of these miserable hills was part of him now, through the fabric of his uniform, into every pore.

Ten minutes out from the LZ. The distant thunder from the coast continued sporadically, and its very continuance made it less of a danger. It sounded even more like thunder now, and only Kelly knew that it was the eight-inch guns of a ship of war. He sat back, resting his elbows on his knees, sweeping the glasses over the camp. Still no lights. Still no movement. Death was racing towards them and they didn't know. He was concentrating so much with his eyes that he almost neglected his ears.

It was hard to pick it out through the rain: a distant rumble, low and tenuous, but it didn't fade. It grew in intensity. Kelly lifted his head from the eyepieces, turning, his mouth open, trying to figure it out.

Motors.

Truck motors. Well, okay, there was a road not too far away -no, themaim road is too far... other direction.

A supply truck maybe. Delivering food and mail.

More than one.

Kelly moved to the top of the hill, leaning against a tree, looking down to where this spur of a dirt road reached out to the one that traced the north bank of the river. Movement. He put the glasses on it.

Truck... two...three... four... oh, my God...

They had lights on - just slits, the headlights taped over. That meant military trucks. The lights of the second gave some illumination to the first. People in the back, lined on both sides.

Soldiers.

Wait, Johnnie-boy, don't panic. Take your time... maybe...

They turned around the base of Snake Hill. A guard in one of the towers shouted something. The call was relayed. Lights came on in the officers' quarters. Somebody came out, probably the Major, not dressed, shouting a question.

The first truck stopped at the gate. A man got out and roared for somebody to open it. The other truck stopped behind it. Soldiers dismounted. Kelly counted... ten... twenty... thirty... more... but it wasn't the number. It was what they started to do.

He had to look away. What more would fate take away from him? Why not just take his life and be done with it? But it wasn't just his life that fate was interested in. It never was. He was responsible, as always, for more than that. Kelly reached for his radio and flipped it on.

'cricket, this is snake, over.'

Nothing.

'cricket, this is snake, over.'

'What gives?' Podulski asked.

Maxwell took the microphone. 'snake, this is cricket actual, what is your message, over?'

'Abort abort abort - acknowledge,' was what they all heard.

'Say again snake. Say again.'

'Abort the mission,' Kelly said, too loudly for his own safety. 'Abort abort abort. Acknowledge immediately.'

It took a few seconds. 'We copy your order to abort. Acknowledged. Mission aborted. Stand by.'

'Roger, standing by.'

'What is it?' Major Vinh asked.

'We have information that the Americans may try to raid your camp,' the Captain replied, looking back at his men. They were deploying skillfully, half heading for trees, the other half taking positions inside the perimeter, digging in as soon as they picked their places. 'Comrade Major, I am ordered to take charge of the defense until more units arrive. You are ordered to take your Russian guest to Hanoi for safety.'

'But - '

'The orders come from General Giap himself, Comrade Major.' Which settled matters very quickly indeed. Vinh went back to his quarters to dress. His camp sergeant went to awaken his driver. '

Kelly could do nothing more than watch. Forty-five, maybe more. It was hard to count them as they moved. Teams digging machine gun pits. Patrol elements in the woods. That was an immediate danger to him, but he waited even so. He had to be sure that he'd done the right thing, that he hadn't panicked, hadn't been a sudden coward.

Twenty- five against fifty, with surprise and a plan, not hard. Twenty-five against a hundred, without surprise... hopeless. He'd done the right thing. There was no reason to add twenty-five more bodies to the ledger sheet that they kept in Washington. His conscience didn't have room for that kind of mistake or for those kinds of lives.

'Helos coming back, sir, same way they went in,' the radar operator told the XO.

'Too fast,' the XO said.

'Goddamn it, Dutch! Now what -'

'The mission's aborted, Cas,' Maxwell said, staring down at the chart table.

'But why?'

'Because Mr Clark said so,' Ritter answered. 'He's the eyes. He makes the call. You don't need anybody to tell you that, Admiral. We still have a man in there, gentlemen. Let's not forget that.'

'We have twenty men in there.'

'That's true, sir, but only one of them is coming out tonight.' And then only if we're lucky.

Maxwell looked up to Captain Franks. 'Let's move in towards the beach, fast as you can.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Hanoi? Why?'

'Because we have orders.' Vinh was looking over the dispatch the Captain had delivered. 'Well, the Americans wanted to come here, eh? I hope they do. This will be no Song Tay for them!'

The idea of an infantry action didn't exactly thrill Colonel Grishanov, and a trip to Hanoi, even an unannounced one, also meant a trip to the embassy. 'Let me pack, Major.'

'Be quick about it!' the little man snapped back, wondering if his trip to Hanoi was for some manner of transgression.

It could be worse. Grishanov now had all his notes together and slid them into a backpack. All of his work, now that Vinh had so kindly released it back to him. He'd drop it off with General Rokossovskiy, and with that in official hands, he could make his case for keeping these Americans alive. It was an ill wind, he thought, remembering the English aphorism.

He could hear them coming. Far off, moving without a great deal of skill, probably tired, but coming...

'cricket, this is snake, over.'

'We read you, snake.'

'I'm moving. There are people on my hill, coming my way. I will head west. Can you send a helo for me?'

'Affirmative. Be careful, son.' It was Maxwell's voice, still concerned.

'Moving now. Out.' Kelly pocketed the radio and headed to the crest. He took a moment to look, comparing what he saw now with what he'd seen before.

I runespecially fast in the dark, he'd told the Marines. Time now to prove it. With one last listen to the approaching NVA, Kelly picked a thin spot in the foliage and headed down the hill.