Chapter Twelve.
The little Citroën grated to a standstill about thirty metres back down the track and the doors banged open. Two mean-looking NVA troopers climbed out and looked around. Sandman chambered a round and cocked his automatic. The two NVA soldiers began walking up the muddy track, scrutinising the ruined buildings watchfully. Sandman silently motioned Stacey to move to the rear of the shelter behind the protection of the pile of logs. He watched the soldiers' approach through a crack in the hut wall. The one in the lead suddenly stopped and pointed to the water storage bag staked out on the ground in front of the little hut.
Above the pounding rain, Sandman heard a sharp click as the lead soldier cocked his AK-47, and coldly watched as the pair began creeping forward. Sandman raised his Smith and Wesson. The latch on the rough-planked door began to lift imperceptibly, and then was pulled sharply open and the muzzle of the AK-47 was poked through the widening gap. Sandman fired point-blank into the NVA soldier's face and watched as the man's head literally disappeared; spraying blood, bone, and brain matter over the soldier standing behind him. As the body slumped sideways, Sandman fired again. He heard the bullet strike human flesh. It sounded exactly like the sound that a canoe paddle makes when it is slapped into mud. The soldier managed a single, strangled, muffled scream; it was all he was capable of with half his lower jaw shot away. He toppled to his knees, and then collapsed, writhing in the mud. Sandman put another round into the back of the man's head and the writhing stopped. He was using point-three-eight, jacketed soft points; and at such close range their impact was devastating. He turned to Stacey, who was cowering wide-eyed and shocked behind the pile of logs.
'Stay there whilst I go dump these bodies in one of the huts along with the other stiffs. Then, we'll high-tail it out of this shithole in the Dinks' car.'
He grabbed the second corpse by the feet and dragged it away down the track towards the first of the ruined huts. Stacey remained crouched behind the log pile, biting her lip and glancing at the semi-headless corpse sprawled in the doorway. The pounding rain was coming in and soaking the corpse. Thick tendrils of blood and fragments of brain matter and bone from the shattered remains of its head were beginning to swirl in the puddles forming in the muddy threshold of the doorway. She dragged her eyes away, struggling to suppress the queasiness that was threatening to engulf her. Blood, she could stomach; it was natural... you broke the skin... you bled. What was bobbing around in the muddy pink puddle wasn't ever meant to be seen; and that was why its visual impact was so unsettling. She forced these thoughts from her mind. "Stop thinking so much, you stupid bitch. Get a hold of yourself."
Sandman returned and wiped the rain from his face with the back of his hand. He bent to pick up one of the headless NVA soldier's legs. Glancing up, he gave Stacey a wry grin.
'Just a few more minutes whilst I dump this piece of shit, and then, we'll get moving. We should be able to make it out to Highway Eighty-one provided this rain hasn't washed out any of the track.'
He paused from hauling the second corpse out of the doorway, and gave a crooked grin.
'I'm using the term "highway" very loosely here. You really need four-wheel-drive on most of these roads, but their old tub will probably make it… it's front-wheel-drive. All I have to do is to try to get it to fire up.'
Stacey made her way out carefully from behind the wood pile as Sandman dragged the body away down the track. She waited in the little hut trying not to look at the gory mess in the doorway. Fortunately, the lashing rain was beginning to cause the puddle that had formed, and in which the fragments of brain matter and bone floated, to overflow and run in bloody rivulets away from the hut's interior… but it didn't mask the smell. She heard the grating whirr of a starter motor and the muffled sound of Sandman swearing at the little Citroën as he struggled to start its engine. She barely heard the door of the Citroën slam and the sound of its whiny little engine above the sound of the pelting rain. She watched the 2CV lurch forward and, braving the driving rain, carefully stepped over the disgusting mess in the doorway, and made a dash for the car's passenger door. Jumping into the "lawn-chair" type seat, she banged the door shut, which caused the window to spring open. Frantically, she pulled it shut as the teeming rain blew into her face… not that it really helped; the ancient and disintegrating; thin canvas roof was letting in almost as much rainwater. Sandman grinned.
'Don't be such a girl! What else do you expect from this sardine can on wheels? They only ever designed it to step the French peasants up from horses and carts!'
He grabbed the gear lever that protruded from the dash and shoved it forwards into first gear. The little Citroën lurched forward, with its skinny front wheels scrabbling for grip on the slight, muddy incline that led out of the abandoned ville. As the Citroen bounced up and down on the rough track, he pulled the gear stick back and selected second gear. The tiny engine whined even louder and a strange vibration began to rattle the doors, and virtually every other metal panel. It was like sitting inside an automatic washing machine. As he banged the gear shift across into third, Sandman grinned.
'That's why they call this heap a "Tin snail!" They reckon it will run, flat out, at eighty k's… if there are any real roads around here.'
Stacey gave him a dirty look.
'I'm absolutely drenched, this seat is bloody uncomfortable; it's like riding a roller coaster… and you start making smart-ass jokes?'
His grin became even broader.
'Damn me, Baby-Girl. A drop of rain never hurt anyone, and you must admit; it's a sight better than walking.'
She sniffed, irascibly.
'By the way this piece of French crap is bouncing up and down and lurching, I think you're nuts the way you're driving this heap anyway. You're going to flip us over if you don't keep your mind on the job in hand.'
Sandman pulled a face.
'Yes Ma'am. Permission to keep driving like a crazy asshole, Ma'am? Permission to…'
Stacey cut in.
'Don't fuck about Alex. This track looks dangerous enough as it is, without you acting like a complete prick.'
He glanced at her, taking silent note of the set of her pretty lips. He smiled quietly to himself. Yes, she was high-spirited and volatile. This was not a lady to fuck about with, or get on the wrong side of. That was just one of the reasons why he had fallen in love with her. It was probably in his best interests not to keep on taking the piss. He decided to concentrate on the driving; and shut up, whilst he was still ahead.
As he peered through the rain-blurred windshield that the mechanical windshield wipers were struggling to clear, he failed to notice the tiny smile that was playing on her lips. The rain was powerful and hard; thunder rumbled around the hills. The track was beginning to crumble in places, and stones were falling onto the surface from the hillside to the right. Water streamed along the road, turning the dirt, and gravel into a muddy soup.
The track from the desolated ville towards the highway was getting steeper and was becoming treacherous. The hillside was made up of horizontal layers of shale. Sandman was well aware that when this sort of formation became soaked with rain... especially this amount of rain; the layers had a nasty tendency to begin sliding over each other… very much like a pack of slippery playing cards. The wet season had not long ended, and the hillside was saturated, and probably highly unstable. He glanced up at the hillside. There were signs that the fragile surface had indeed, broken up and parts of the hillside were beginning to be pulled apart by successive landslips. The track at the bottom of the slope was not much better. Water-filled ruts covered the surface, and the edge was beginning to crumble. Any repairs had been long abandoned… probably due to lack of materials and possibly, NVA interference. It looked very much as though the ville had given up and had been resigned to let the track crumble gradually down into the gulley. If the little Citroën did skid on the broken, slippery shale spread across the track; there was a twenty-foot drop waiting for them on the left-hand side. Sandman glanced at Stacey. She saw that his eyes were narrowed and his jaw muscles were tight. This didn't look good.
As they made their way around the narrowest and steepest part of this particular section Sandman was still accelerating hard... it was the only way that the skinny front tires could keep any traction. He knew that if they could just make it safely around this part, it would get easier; the track seemed to be levelling out. He pushed on around an approaching bend, and just as they reached a wider part of the rutted surface; he glanced up the side of the hill. Through the pounding rain, he saw what looked like a river of water and mud surging down the bank. Uprooted trees and rocks were tumbling down towards the track. Hitting the brakes, he tried to slew the car to a standstill, but the landslip was moving faster than he could move out of the way, and stop. The first lumps of timber and rocks began banging against the little Citroën's bodywork as it slid towards the hole that was appearing in front of them in the slick, mud-covered track at a frightening speed. After what seemed like a lifetime, but was no more than a few, fleet seconds, the Citroën finally slithered to a halt a mere couple of feet from the deepening gap that was scouring out of the track. Sandman didn't hesitate. He shoved Stacey and yelled,
'Out! Get out now!'
She threw the door open and jumped out onto the muddy track as Sandman jammed the gear shift into reverse in an attempt to get out of the way of the muddy deluge that was threatening to sweep both them and the car off the track into the gulley below. As she ran clear, the edge of the track suddenly gave way beneath her feet. She felt herself sliding down the side of the gulley until her feet found solid purchase on a tiny ledge just a foot or so below the level of the track. Frantically, she grabbed at the slimy vegetation at the edge of the track trying to get a hold of something to stop her from slipping into the gulley below.
The Citroën's tires finally attained grip, and the little car lurched and sloshed past her, showering mud over the edge. She yelled out against the howling wind; reaching up for something to get a firmer grip on. The edge of the track was beginning to crumble as the rain washed away the soil from the roots of the coarse weeds that she was clinging to. She felt them begin to tear out from the edge. Any second they would give way and send her down into the gulley.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed her wrist. She looked up into the rain and wind, into the face of Sandman, soaked to the skin and lying on the muddy track, reaching down to her. He yelled, over the pelting rain and wind,
'Give me your hand... Give me your goddamned hand!'
The ledge that he was lying on was starting to crumble as the rain washed away what was left of the edge of the track. Rocks were bouncing across the track and crashing down into the gulley as the mud and water cascaded over the ledge. She reached up and felt his hand close, vice-like, over her other wrist. The track edge that he was lying on wasn't going to hold out much longer. He gritted his teeth and heaved, as her feet scrabbled against the slippery bank. With more strength than she imagined he could possibly possess; he dragged her up over the edge and literally threw her into the middle of the track; rolling away as a full foot of the crumbling, muddy surface disappeared down into the gulley. They lay in the mud for a while, with the rain beating down on them; hardly daring to believe that they were still alive and in one piece.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
After a while, Sandman stood up and pulled Stacey to her feet. He surveyed the washed-out track in front of them. He glanced back at the Citroën, and then back to the track. Shrugging, he pointed to the large chunk ahead of them that had washed away.
'Fuck! There's only about five feet of safe track still there.'
He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder to the little car that sat with its engine spluttering and rattling.
'That little piece of shit has a track width of about four feet, by the look of it. With luck, I'll get it past that landslip; but, not with you inside. Now walk ahead, keeping to the right, and I'll pick you up on the other side.'
Stacey gave him an anxious look.
'You really think you can make it, Alex? It looks damn risky to me.'
He shrugged again, and gave a faint grin.
Well, I guess so; but we've gotta try it.'
He watched her expression change from anxiety to trepidation, and forced a smile.
'Look; this heap is a right-hand-drive. It must have been brought in from Thailand or Japan at some time. That means that if the friggin' surface does give way, I can bale onto the safe side of the road. Now, get on across; stand well back on the firm part of the track and guide me. The longer we leave it, the less chance we have.'
She nodded and moved forward; skirting the scoured-out gap in the track that was creeping inexorably further into what remained of the stable surface. She stopped six feet from the edge of the wash-out, and turned. Sandman was carefully easing the little Citroën forward; hugging the bank as he approached the unstable section. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched the front near-side wheel start to creep past the crumbling edge of the track. Sandman had no choice but to keep the car at a crawling pace. As the wheel approached the centre of the gap, another rush of water cascaded down the hillside, bringing more shale rocks and slurry gushing out under the car and washing away another inch or so of the edge. Biting her lip, Stacey frantically waved her hand in the direction of the left side of the track; but the little Citroën's off-side wheels were tight up against the slope and any further movement that way might easily tip it over, causing its weight to concentrate on the near-side wheels. This pressure on the waterlogged and granulating shale would almost certainly cause the whole of the crumbling edge to collapse and send the car and Sandman down into the gulley. Even as she watched, the edge was starting to break up under the skinny tyre. She waved her arms wildly and shouted at the top of her voice to Sandman… anything to try to warn him; but the wind and driving rain drowned her out. Suddenly, the little Citroën's engine screamed, and the front wheels began to scrabble at the slimy surface. Sandman had sensed a movement under the vehicle, and was gunning the tiny, underpowered engine in a desperate attempt to get clear.
As she watched, horrified; the Citroën began to teeter sideways as the shale began to separate and fragment under the weight of the car. When it seemed that it… and Sandman must crash down into the gulley, suddenly, the front wheels bit into solid ground. In any other vehicle, it would have been too late; but the little French car's suspension was legendary for its length of travel, and, with the rear near-side wheel dangling in space, and both front wheels clawing for purchase; the Citroën scrabbled and dragged itself up onto firm ground. As it slewed and shuddered to a standstill, the driver's door banged open and Sandman climbed out. He leant against the side of the car and gazed back at the subsidence that had almost pitched both him and the car down into the gulley.
Stacey ran to him with tears of relief flowing down her cheeks and, throwing her arms around him, hugged him tightly. She clung to him as her tears mingled with the rain. He held her and brushed her tears away. She gently ran her hand across his cheek, and blurted,
'You crazy, dumb bastard, Alex.'
He grinned… that exasperatingly laconic grin which he always used, and glanced back at the void in the track that was widening by the minute as the slurry of shale and water continued to eat away the surface. He looked back down into her face.
'Holy Cow! That was close!'
They clung to each other for a while in the hissing rain. Stacey stared up at him; wet-faced and wide-eyed.
'Don't ever leave me,'
She begged. She pressed herself tighter against him; and he knew in that fleeting moment in time that she was the only part of his life that really mattered.
'I won't,'
He promised,
'I won't ever leave you.'
He looked down at her, and smiled gently. He had no idea why a beautiful young girl like her wanted someone like him. What was he?... Nothing but a crazy, fast playing, hell raising, comic-strip hero, old enough to be her father; who preferred not to ask too many questions… or bother answering them. They both flew for a spook airline that didn't even exist on paper, flying missions of the sort that Air America went in for, which would turn the average civilian airline pilot's hair white in a single flight.
She knew the deal. She knew that all they could hold on to was each other… and even then, putting aside the booze, heartaches, and laughs; that either of them or both of them could be gone in less time than it took to say it. The notorious "Golden B-B" didn't take any prisoners, or make any choices… and still she wanted him. He looked down into her eyes, and his questions and doubts were answered incontrovertibly. She didn't have to say anything at all. Her eyes said it all. He kissed her gently on her wet forehead.
'OK, Baby-Girl; we've hung around here long enough. Let's bust a move and find this goddamned Lima.'
Climbing into the little Citroën, she shivered.
'God, I'm getting cold in these wet clothes. Get moving, and keep your eyes on the road whilst I get them off and wring out most of the water… and don't get any cute ideas!'
Sandman grinned.
'Me? As if I would!'
She glanced at him as she stripped down to her bra and panties, opened the window, and started to wring out her shirt.
He grinned appreciatively; admiring the sheen of her lithe, toned body; her wet skin shining like stretched silk; with the little mounds of her cold, erect nipples thrusting through the thin fabric of her soaking-wet bra.
'Your underwear is just as wet. You better get them off, too!'
She raised an admonishing eyebrow and her mouth curved into a tiny smile.
'You wish! Don't push your luck, Shepard.'
The torrential rain was easing a little, as the Citroën rattled and bounced along the track towards where, according to the map, the main highway would be found. Without taking his eyes off the rutted and rain-soaked track, Sandman spoke to Stacey.
'Hey, Baby-Girl; be a honey and break out the chloroquine tablets. Now that the rain's easing, the goddamned mosquitoes will be out in swarms, and we really don't want a dose of malaria.'
She pulled a face.
'I really don't like the horribly bitter, metallic taste of those damn things.'
Sandman nodded.
'Yeah, they taste crappy, but it's got to be better than getting the fever and shakes if you get bitten.'
She forced a smile. As she took out the round plastic snap cap bottle resembling a thirty-five-millimetre film roll container, and popped the top cap.
'I suppose so; but, will it have any real effect? We're supposed to take it once a week for two weeks before entering a malaria area and for four weeks after leaving; and I haven't needed to use it for months.'
Sandman shrugged as he clung to the jarring steering wheel.
'Hell, I don't know; but it can't do any harm.'
She passed one of the tablets to him and held out a water container. It was half-empty.
'That's all the water we have left, Alex. Will there be any supply at the Lima site?'
Swallowing the tablet and taking a sip of water, he glanced at her.
'Who's to say? You'd better finish what's left. You need it more than I do. We don't want you to dehydrate, and I'm more used to this heat than you are.'
She looked at him and smiled as she swallowed the tablet. Typical Alex; always thinking of other people first… that was why she loved this crazy, lovely, swashbuckling pilot.
The track joined the "Highway" two miles further on. This stretch of churned-up mud was only marginally better than the track, but Sandman increased the speed of the little car until they were bouncing and swaying along with the rudimentary speedometer flickering over the seventy km/h mark. He glanced at Stacey.
'Better check the radio. We're going to look like a real pair of dumbasses if we can't contact Vientiane.'
She nodded and pulled the little AN/PRC-90 radio set out and turned the function switch on. Nothing happened. Glancing at Sandman, she turned the function switch through each of its positions in turn. The little radio remained obstinately silent. Sandman glanced at her.
'Are you sure that it's not just a sticky switch?'
She shook her head.
'No, Alex; it's stone dead. Maybe they'll have a radio at the Lima.'
He shook his head.
'Not likely, Baby-Girl. No-one's there unless there is going to be a drop.'
She shot him a resigned glance.
'Then it seems we're going to have to drive down to Vientiane.'
He shook his head.
'Not a chance. There's not enough gas... unless we can find some.'
She tossed the useless survival radio onto the rear seat.
'So, we're screwed, then?'
He shrugged.
'Not necessarily. If we come across a wreck... even a piston-engined ship; we can siphon gas... if there's any left in the tanks.'
The rain was easing to a light drizzle, and a steamy mist was gathering around the treetops. The red earth highway was draining rapidly as the gathered rainwater evaporated. Sandman pressed on. Twenty kilometres on down Highway Eighty-one, as they approached the Pha Luong Karst country; they began to see the water-filled bomb craters. This was the southern edge of the area where Charlie had tried to infiltrate, and Uncle Sam had stopped him dead. There might well be some gasoline recoverable from the scattering of wreckage sprinkled along the highway. The little river running parallel to the highway was identified on the map as the Nam Khiao. According to the map, it appeared to rise in the Phou Huang Hills to the south-east. That meant that it was probably clean and drinkable... provided that the NVA hadn't dumped any corpses into it farther upstream. There were abandoned villes all along the valley. There would be no water to be had in any of these; the NVA poisoned wells as a matter of course to deny them to the Loyalist rebels. Two kilometres farther to the west; just to the north of the little ville marked on the map as Ban Kapap; Sandman suddenly pointed.
'Look there, in the trees! That's friggin' wreckage, and it's one of ours!'
Amidst the trees hung the ruined husk of a single-engined, tubby airplane. The Laotian T-28 Trojan lay tangled in the tree line, fifty metres from the highway; a broken silver bird in a caricature of suspended animation flight, with one wing pointing accusingly at the gun-metal-grey sky. Sandman swung the little Citroën off the highway and lurched across the rough, weed-strewn stretch of ground towards the wreck. It gave every appearance of not having been there for any considerable length of time, and there might just be gasoline remaining in the tank of the intact wing.
As they approached the wreck, they saw that the body of the pilot... or what remained of the pilot was still strapped into his seat. Judging by the condition of the corpse, it hadn't been there for any great length of time. The canopy was shattered, and the pilot's helmet lay beneath the fuselage. It was cracked across the top, and the visor was shattered. The helmet contained the remains of the pilot's head. Judging by the battle damage; it looked as though a heavy-calibre round had effectively decapitated the poor bastard. The corpse still wore its survival vest. Sandman studied the remains. Even though the corpse was in a reasonably advanced state of decomposition; he could see that the skin was darker than he would have expected if the victim had been Caucasian. So this had been a Hmong pilot... either out of Savannakhet, or possibly, a member of the Long Tieng Strike Force. Whichever it was; he was a long way from home.
The fuselage looked as though it was secure and wouldn't move. Sandman carefully clambered up and flipped open the wing fuel tank filler cap. The tank was empty. He swore quietly and turned to jump down. He glanced again at the slimy corpse and paused. Reaching into the shattered cockpit, he flipped open the large, left pocket of the survival vest. The dead pilot's AN/PRC-90 rescue radio dropped out into his hand. Flicking the function switch clockwise to the VOICE/MCW position, he heard the hiss of the guard channel emergency frequency. OK. Now they had the wherewithal to get home. He gave the corpse a final cursory glance. It was too far gone for any sort of identification, and the Trojan didn't carry any code letters or numbers. He shrugged, and quietly said, "Thanks buddy," before he jumped down from the fuselage to the ground. He climbed into the car and handed the radio to Stacey. Opening up the map, he marked the approximate position of the downed Trojan so that the corpse could be located and retrieved at a later time. Glancing at Stacey, he engaged gear and pulled back out onto the highway.
'OK, Baby-Girl; let's go find this goddamned Lima.'
The rain had stopped by the time Sandman and Stacey reached the small, seemingly deserted ville named Ban Phônkho. According to the now, almost illegible rubber survival map, the Lima site was located about eight klicks along the first track to the left, beyond the southern end of the ville. They were in Karst country; the southern reaches of the Phou Phaman range towered to the right-hand side of the highway. Sandman turned the Citroën onto the track which led away from the highway through increasingly marshy ground. If they bogged down here, it was a long walk up to the Lima. The fuel gauge had stopped indicating a while ago. How much gas was left in the tank was anyone's guess.
Ahead, a small stream crossed the track. He gunned the engine and splashed through in a cloud of steam as the water sprayed up over the hot exhaust pipe. It also sloshed water up through the rusting floor pan, but the Citroën kept going. Stacey glared at him as water sprayed over her legs.
'Thanks for that, Alex. I really did need to cool down. My flight pants were getting too dry!'
He grinned.
'Well, you'd better get ready. There's another stream across the road about two klicks farther on; and then, two more before we reach the Lima.'
She sniffed, and put her feet up on the dashboard.
'And I just know you'll take it nice and easy through them?'
He nodded.
'Of course, Baby-Girl… trust me!'
She arched an eyebrow and gave him a sidelong glance.
'You think?'