Williams switched back to automatic fire just as a sound like a sickle swiping through the corn-high grass made the patrol freeze. Williams lifted his hand to signal a halt. Then they heard the percussive chatter of AK-47 rifles.
"No." someone shouted.
But it wasn't the Vietcong. They were wearing uniforms. NVA regulars. Williams could see their gray figures moving beyond the chopped grass. And behind them loomed Hill 881 South.
Khe Sanh, Williams thought. I'm back at Khe Sanh. He opened up. Everyone opened up. At first, only the elephant grass fell. Then the black guy with the nose bead went down with both legs cut out from under him. Williams recognized him then. Chappell. Private Lance Chappell, who'd bought it in October '67 when he test-fired an AK-47 he'd found on the trail, unaware that U.S. Special Forces were in the habit of replacing the powder in captured weapons with explosive C4 and leaving them for the Vietcong to find. Chappell was blown to bits.
Lance Chappell. First Battalion, Twenty-sixth Marines, a victim of the Green Berets.
Williams' rifle ran empty. He dropped to one knee, inserted a fresh clip, and flipped the selector back to semiautomatic. The enemy were scattering under the wild return fire. Williams moved forward, firing single shots.
Someone started screaming off in the trees where the North Vietnamese had retreated.
"You greased one, Williams. Good goin'!" Who said that? I know that voice.
Williams' patrol advanced on the tree line. Return fire was sporadic, ineffectual.
"Anyone see how many there were?" he shouted.
"Three. Three for sure."
"Well, that dink yelling his head off don't count no more," that familiar, ironic drawl said.
They reached the trees, Williams first. He found the wounded NVA soldier lying on his side, no longer screaming, just crying, "Troi Oi! Troi Oi!" in a pained voice. Williams' round had caught him in the chest, and pink bubbles broke from his lips with every word. A lung wound.
"Anyone know what he's saying?" he asked.
"Yeah," the ironic voice replied just out of Williams' range of vision. "He's callin' for his God. Probably be meetin' him soon, too. "
"Why don't someone speed him on his way?" someone else suggested.
"Good idea." The owner of that familiar voice fired point-blank. The burst went in like a sprinkle of tacks and came out the back like a thresher. The Vietnamese collapsed. The rifleman turned to give Williams a thumps-up sign, and suddenly Williams could make out his grinning face.
Williams smiled back, pleased. It was Ed Repp. The last time he had seen Ed, they were on a two-man patrol on Hill 860. Williams had the point. Ed had called, "Hold up, I'm gonna take a leak," and disappeared into the bush. The explosion came a minute after. Williams ran in after him. He found Ed's right hand first. It ended in a mass of raw meat flecked with white cartilage. The rest of him lay scattered about a fifty-yard radius. A mine. VC mines released steel pellets that were the equivalent of seventy twelve-gauge shotguns going off under your feet. They did the job.
Williams didn't cry. He didn't react. He just pulled a body bag from his rucksack and started loading. He didn't feel a thing-not even the brief sprinkle that followed the explosion that wasn't the color of rain.
Ed Repp was the last new friend Williams had made in Vietnam. After that, he stopped making friends. They were a bad investment.
Ed Repp, killed while relieving himself near Khe Sanh, Republic of Vietnam, Summer 1967.
But it was a pleasure to see him again. "So, how've you been, Ed?" Williams asked.
Ed stopped smiling and his eyes took on that thousand-yard stare you saw everywhere in the bush.
"Dead. I've been dead," he said quietly.
"Yeah, I know. I was there, remember?"
Ed's eyes came back into focus, and a smile lit up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes but somehow making him look younger, like a twenty-four-year-old. He was nineteen.
Before he could speak, someone asked, "What about those other two dinks? There might be an NVA base camp nearby." When Williams looked around to see who spoke, the face was vague in the late-afternoon light and he decided it was better not to look closer.
"What do you think, Point Man?" Ed Repp asked lazily. There was a mischievous light in his eyes that Williams recognized.
"Later. We've got a seriously injured man back in the grass. Someone get the bitch box and call in a medevac. Ed, you pop smoke for the dustoff "
The helicopter beat the grass flat as it touched down. They loaded Chappell into the side, and the others climbed aboard too. They waved at Williams as the chopper lifted off. Williams waved back, wondering why he had been left behind.
Then he turned around, and there, inexplicably, were the hills of the Central Highlands off in the distance, green and lush and unspoiled by war, with a heavy mist hanging over them like the breath of angels. Williams just sat down, laid his rifle along his crossed legs, and stared at the beautiful sight until the tears welled in his eyes and he felt a deep, overpowering joy that no one who hadn't lived through Vietnam could understand-and even those who had, had never found the words to describe.
Christ, this place is going to go on forever. Not all the killing, all the politics, screw-ups and bullshit are ever going to change that. Vietnam is eternal and I feel I'm part of it now.
When Remo woke up, he was in an unfamiliar room. The walls were upholstered with some dull padded material. He lay on a large but uncomfortable cot.
Remo sat up on the cot. For some reason, he was having trouble clearing his mind. That hadn't happened to him in a long time. Before CURE, before Sinanju. His whole body felt dull.
A squeaky voice came from the floor. "Ah, you waken."
"Chiun?"
The Master of Sinanju sat in the corner, on the floor, as always. He had changed into a light yellow robe with high skirts and shortened sleeves. An exercise kimono.
"You remember me? Good," said Chiun, reaching up and tugging on a knotted cord. Outside the heavy, reinforced door, a buzzer blared until Chiun let go of the cord.
"Of course I remember you," Remo said in an annoyed tone. "Why shouldn't I?"
Chiun shrugged. "Anything is possible to one in your state."
"What state is that?"
"New York," said Chiun. "You are in New York. Heh, heh." But when Remo didn't smile at the Master of Sinanju's little joke, Chiun's parchment face went hard.
"Where am I? Folcroft?"
"Yes. Emperor Smith and I decided you belonged here. "
Remo stood up. "In a rubber room?" he asked. The door clicked and Smith stepped in.
"Remo. Master of Sinanju," Smith said by way of greeting. "How are you feeling, Remo?"
"Woozy. What'd you hit me with, Chiun-a brick?" Chiun produced a ball of crumpled paper from one sleeve, tossed it from right hand to left, and then flicked it to Remo. It sailed up, then sank like a pitcher's curve ball. Remo caught it. He looked at it blankly.
"You're kidding me. It's been years since you were able to tag me with one of your origami beanballs."
"Yes," Chiun said slowly. "That is the sad part."
Smith cleared his throat. "Chiun believes that your training has started to erode, Remo. We brought you here so that he could work with you and sharpen your skills until you are at full potential once more."