Corporal Smith’s lips sagged with pale bitterness. Below in the road a pair of soldiers came in sight, walking unhurriedly, talking. They stopped in front of the temple and exchanged words, and then one of them went on his way. The other turned toward the temple and walked forward until he was out of their sight. Smith held his breath, but the soldier did not come inside the temple. “What’s he doing down there?”
“Taking a post, I guess. Don’t sweat it.”
“He’s right under us!”
“Keep your puking voice down, kid.”
Smith rubbed his face. His cheeks were stained by the tracks of drying sweat. He glanced at Hooker; Hooker’s brutal face was lifted to one side, his features unstirred. Smith watched those cruel, impassive cheeks and wanted to cry out; he wanted the sight of another man’s nerves raw and quivering like his own. A sluggish current of air chilled his skin. His eyes were hot and round. A piece of sky suddenly broke open, shining blue through the clouds. Beyond the looming storage tanks, the mountains buckled up in crooked sawteeth. Smith’s breath bubbled in his throat; he cleared his throat as quietly as he could and tried not to remember where he was. Dust lay in a fine grit on his lips; he licked it off. The slow tramp of heels sounded below — the sentry walking to and fro. Cars and wagons made faint noises in the city, not far away. A jeep’s fog lights stabbed around the bend and rushed forward along the road, turned another bend, and were gone. The sentry became a dark suggestion moving through the foliage. Smith’s heart pounded in his ears. “How long now?” he whispered.
“Ten, fifteen minutes. Will you for Christ’s sake shut up?”
Chapter Thirty-three
1205 Hours
Tyreen saw himself as he was: too gaunted, too afraid, half consumed by disease and disappointment. But he had the capacity to recall himself as he had been in the fancies of his adolescence — a tall man, lean, saturnine, quiet, brave, wise, and supremely sure of himself. He tried to understand why it had not turned out that way. Sick with pain and exhaustion, he sat in the shadow of the big tank and gave very little attention to the sound of the car driving slowly through the truck park. Then Saville kicked him gently. “That’s our boys. Come on, David — come on.”
Tyreen pushed himself up onto his feet. Awareness of the present rushed back to him. He turned to face down the row of half-tracks.
A small command car, a Moskvitch, turned into the aisle of pavement and drove slowly forward. Tyreen recognized Sergeant Khang, in his captain’s uniform, at the wheel. Sergeant Sun sat beside him. When the car drew up, Sun opened the door and stepped out.
Khang said, “Are we late? The bastards made me sign a requisition for the car.”
“There’s time,” Tyreen said.
“Okay, Colonel. How’re we going to work this?”
Tyreen said, “You get in back with me. Captain Saville and I are your prisoners. Sergeant Sun will drive us up to headquarters, and you’ll take us into the building at gunp — oint. If anybody tries to stop you, tell them your orders are to deliver us personally to Colonel Trung.”
Sergeant Sun tugged his cap down and licked his lips. Khang said, “What about your pistols, Colonel?”
“You’ll have to take those.” Tyreen handed his sidearm to Khang. Sergeant Sun held out his hand and accepted Theodore Saville’s pistol. Khang waved the automatic at Tyreen and grinned. “Okay, Colonel. I got to admit there’s been times today when I wanted a chance to wave a gun at you.”
“Careful where you point that thing,” Saville growled.
Sergeant Khang turned to walk around the car; Saville opened the front door to slide in; and Sergeant Sun, lifting Saville’s pistol in his fist, said sharply, “Stop now.”
Saville had his head bowed in the car doorway. He backed out. “What the hell?”
Sun had his pistol trained on Nguyen Khang. He barked rapidly at Khang in Vietnamese, and slowly Khang let the gun fall from his hand. On Sun’s command, he kicked it away from him. Sun’s face was broken out in sweat. Tyreen said, “So that’s the way it is.”
Nhu Van Sun said in Vietnamese, “It is a fine coup for me to bring all of you to Colonel Trung. It is a fine coup. You will get in the front of the car now, all three. I will ride in the back. The fat Captain will drive.” Sun showed his teeth. “It would have been wise to listen to the Sergeant Hooker, no?”
Saville said, “Why’d you wait so long before you jumped us?”
“It was most easy to allow you to deliver yourselves to Chutrang, Captain. Now please do not delay me more. Get in the car.”
Sun backed into the open rear door of the car and held his pistol across the window sash. “Slowly, please. And please remember that the sound of one shot from here will bring many soldiers. You cannot escape now. You — the traitor to the people — you will get in first. Di di!”
Khang got into the car and slid across the seat. Tyreen squeezed in beside him. He felt the nearness of Sun’s pistol to the back of his neck. The back door stood open. Saville started to get into the driver’s seat, but as he turned, his hand came up from waist level and suddenly the great slab of his palm was jammed against the muzzle of Sun’s pistol. Sun’s finger contracted on the trigger, but the pressure of Saville’s powerful grip against the recoil spring kept the weapon from exploding. Saville’s left hand whipped across to crack Sun’s wrist. Sun struggled grimly, his hand caught in the door. Saville’s hand turned white against the pistol; and Tyreen, reaching across the back of the seat, lodged both thumbs against the Vietnamese’s throat.
Saville hooked back the pistol’s hammer with his left hand and wrenched it out of Sun’s flailing grip. Sergeant Khang was twisting in his seat, reaching for Sun’s free arm that tugged at Tyreen’s hand. It was not needed. The pressure of Tyreen’s hands killed the man in a few silent seconds.
Tyreen pulled his hands away and sagged in the seat, staring. Theodore Saville said something, a sour grunt. Saville tugged Nhu Van Sun out of the car. He looked both ways and rolled the body beneath the belly of the big tank.
Sweat poured from Tyreen’s face. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”
Saville had hands like hams. They trembled, and Saville squeezed them together, licking his lips and not looking at anyone. Tyreen slid across behind the wheel, drained and sick. “Sergeant Khang.”
Khang did not answer, but his face came around. Tyreen said, “Get into the car.”
Khang said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” His mouth worked. “Listen — about him.” His head turned on bulging neck tendons.
Tyreen saw the frenzied glitter of his eyes. “All right. Don’t talk about it. It’s all been said.”
“It has?” When Khang was not laughing, he had a sad face. His eyes were fierce black against the skin.
Tyreen said angrily, “The cards are dealt. Play your hand, Sergeant, or throw it in.”
“I want it clear,” Khang said. “Or do you vote like Hooker?”
Khang was asking for trust. Tyreen watched, his face like a blue-steel hatchet, slightly rusty. He said, “Nobody’s going to sell you into Egypt, Sergeant.”
The pistol lay cocked on the running board. Tyreen reached for it. Khang’s eyes watched, cynical and distrusting. Tyreen handed the pistol to him, butt first. When Khang took the weapon, Tyreen said, “He was just obeying orders, Sergeant. Just like you and me.”
Khang climbed into the back of the car, moving arthritically. “You got to be kidding, Colonel.”
“Why?”
Dismally, Tyreen turned the key in the ignition. The engine popped and began to hum. Theodore Saville climbed in and slammed the door more loudly than he had to.