She reached back and brought her long black hair over her right shoulder and squeezed the water from it.
I focused again between her breasts and squeezed the trigger, just as she bent over to gather her black pajamas.
The blast of the rifle sounded very loud in the quiet night, and the report echoed through the stones. Night birds and animals started squawking, and the three guys behind me were on their feet before the sound of the shot faded into the distant hills.
I took a last look, but she was gone.
Dawson said excitedly, “What the hell-?”
“Her.”
Smitty said, “Holy shit!”
Johnson asked, “You get her?”
“Maybe …”
“Maybe?” Dawson said. “Maybe? Maybe we should get the fuck out of here.”
“Right. Saddle up.”
We gathered our gear, and because we slept with our boots on, we were ready to move within a minute.
I led the way down the south slope of the rock field. The going was slow and treacherous in the dark. A sliver of moon dimly illuminated the white rocks, and also illuminated us. I didn’t hear the shot because it was silenced, but I heard the ping of a ricochet against a nearby rock.
We hit the ground, then got into a low crouch and stumbled along, zigzagging, dropping, rolling, doing everything to make ourselves a difficult target.
Another shot ricocheted somewhere to our right, then another and another. I pictured her kneeling naked behind something, focused through her sniper scope, looking for movement and moon shadows, trying to guess our line of movement, and now and then popping off a round from her Russian rifle just to let us know she was thinking of us.
We came to a place where the rock slide entered a tree line, and we ran at full speed into the concealment of the forest.
I took the lead, and we moved as quickly as we could through the pitch-black woods.
We came to a wide trail over which a great many tires, tank treads, and rubber sandals had passed recently. Counterintuitively, I turned in the direction of the enemy troop movement, and we followed the trail south.
About an hour later, I could hear the throaty sound of a big diesel engine up ahead, and the clank of tank treads.
We slowed to a walk and followed at a distance, hoping they didn’t stop for an unexpected break.
We traveled through the night, following the enemy army, who kept up a moderate pace. Before dawn, I knew, those vehicles and men would scatter into the jungle to hide from our aircraft and helicopters. We needed to make a detour around their day camp so I led my patrol east through the forest. We found a trickling brook that flowed down from the hills toward the coast, and we followed it for an hour, then cut south again, hoping to skirt around the bad guys, who were by now scattering into the triple-canopy forest.
At dawn, we stopped in a bamboo thicket and rested. In fact, we were so exhausted, we just lay where we stopped and fell asleep among the bamboo and the bamboo vipers.
The midmorning sun and heat woke me, and I sat up, sweat running from my face and neck.
Sergeant Dawson was also awake and was drinking what looked like instant coffee from his canteen cup. He asked me, “How’d you miss her? And why’d you shoot?”
I replied, “I missed because I missed, and I shot because I made the decision to shoot. You got a problem with that?”
He shrugged.
I studied my terrain map, and Dawson asked me, “How far are we from Alpha?”
I put the map away and said, “I don’t know where we are, so I don’t know where Alpha is.”
He didn’t like that answer, so I said, “When we get moving, I’ll find some terrain features and locate us. Don’t worry about it, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
You need to establish who’s in control if you’re going to survive, so I said, “Get the men up and moving. Eat on the march. We’ve been here long enough.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Dawson got Smitty and Johnson up and within a minute, we were moving south through the bamboo, which gave way to scattered trees, then a thick subtropical growth of palm brush that cut our arms, hands, and faces.
Within an hour, I was able to locate us on the map, and I announced, “Rendezvous Alpha is about twenty kilometers south and west. We won’t make it in the daylight, but we need to be there for our 0600 hours rendezvous.”
Everyone nodded, if not enthusiastically, then at least with a little optimism. One more day and night of hell, and by first light, we’d be on the magic carpet, and half an hour later, we’d be in base camp on the coast, showering, eating real eggs and bacon, and getting debriefed, not necessarily in that order. Maybe all at once, if I had my way.
I had exactly twenty-nine days to go in this shithole, and by custom, you didn’t go out on patrol with less than thirty to go. This was my last patrol, one way or the other.
We moved into a triple-canopy jungle where the lack of sunlight kept the brush at a minimum, and we should have been able to make good time, but we were barely able to put one foot in front of the other. We all had heat rash, crotch rot, jungle sores, festering cuts, and foot blisters big as onions. I had the sense that we were making barely two kilometers an hour.
It got darker in the triple canopy long before sunset and by 1900 hours, when it should have still been light, it was getting murky, though now and then sunlight would slant in from the west.
We pushed on, me, Sergeant Dawson, Smitty, and Johnson, the survivors of the radioless patrol known by the radio call sign of Black Weasel. We’d located troop movements, but were unable to report them. We’d evaded large numbers of the enemy, but couldn’t evade a single woman who’d taken an obsessive interest in us. If, in fact, I found myself eating scrambled eggs while being debriefed by Royal Duck and the intelligence types, all I could think to say was that they’d better send a good antisniper team in before they sent anyone else. And don’t be surprised if you never hear from the first couple of teams that go in.
We moved into a long patch of sunlight that was contrasted with a dark shadowy area up ahead, and my senses went into high gear. I was about to say, “Spread out and find shadow,” when a movement up ahead caught my eye.
Even with her flash suppressor, I saw the spit of fire high up in the triple-canopy jungle, not more than seventy-five meters away. Johnson let out a loud grunt behind me, and I heard him hit the ground.
I dropped into a kneeling firing position and emptied a full magazine where I’d seen the muzzle flash.
As I was firing at where she was supposed to be, I caught another movement to my left and turned. I was aware of a long vine swinging in an arc back toward where I was spraying bullets. She wasn’t on the vine, but she’d been on the vine and was now in a tree somewhere to my left.
Dawson and Smitty had been firing bursts where I’d directed my fire, and before I could shift my fire to where I thought she’d ridden the swinging vine, Smitty screamed out in pain, then stood, stumbled a few feet, and collapsed facedown. I saw his body jerk like he’d been hit again.
I shifted my fire to where I guessed she was, but Dawson kept firing at her last location, and I shouted to him, “Monkey vine!”
He got it and shifted his fire to intersect mine. Red tracers sliced through the jungle canopy, and leaves, branches, and palm fronds fell to the ground.
We backed out in a crouch, firing as we went, and regrouped about fifty meters back down the trail, then scrambled into a thicket of brush.
Dawson was visibly shaken for the first time since I’d known him. He kept saying, “Jesus Christ. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
I said, “Quiet.”
He sank cross-legged on the ground, then began rocking back and forth, mumbling something.
I said softly, “Get it together, Sergeant. Get it together now.”