Ian Slater: Choke Point

“You think so?” said Aussie dubiously.

“Well, it’s worth a try,” said the general, adding, tongue-in-cheek, “Might help you win your bet.”

Aussie grinned. “They’re not all Chinese. I’m not that stupid.”

“Go on,” said the general. “Hurry up. Tell him to get those samples fast and put ’em in a cooler. I want to be off this tub in ten minutes.”

While the Zodiac, bow up, skimmed the gray water through varying densities of fog, Freeman’s brain was racing, his chain of connected memories now complete, his penchant for detail at the fore, his mental files rapidly flipping back to the café, the waiter’s dirty fingernails and the angry ring of irritated flesh around the throat and wrists taking him back to remembrances of his long days and nights in Vietnam, especially in the South, where, as he was now reminding Aussie, the Viet Cong, having gotten dangerously close to Saigon right under the noses of the Americans and their own fellow South Vietnamese, had executed one of the greatest military maneuvers of all time.

“Cu—” he began, then stopped, swerving the boat, heeding Sal’s shouted warning that there was a deadhead in front of them, one of the many floating logs that were always breaking loose from the huge timber rafts hauled across the strait, or the fallout from storm-uprooted trees along the coast.

“Cu Chi,” the general told Aussie as the Zodiac straightened out on its fast run into the harbor.

“Gotcha!” Aussie shouted above the outboard, the engine markedly noisier than when he and the general had used it to approach the sub. “This Merc needs a tune-up,” he told the general.

Freeman took no notice, telling Aussie instead that it would be his job to drive the Humvee that he’d told Hall to book ahead by radio.

“Hope it’s there!” shouted Aussie. “Everyone’s probably left town by now.”

“It’ll be there,” the general assured him, though Aussie was certain Freeman had no way of being that sure.

“Sal,” the general called out. “I’ve been thinking. Soon as we hit the beach, you call Fort Lewis. Tell Brentwood to grab a Huey and get his ass up here. Tell him we’ll meet him at Laurel and Railroad.”

“You want him to bring that Bullpup?”

“Hell, no. Better his sidearm.”

“Roger.”

“There’s the Humvee,” said Freeman, slowing the Zodiac to twenty knots, well in excess of harbor approach regulations. A purse seiner loomed ahead in the fog, one of its crew giving them a frantic “slow down” signal.

“Sea rage,” quipped Aussie, waving at the purse seiner, the man’s shouting eliciting a full stiff-arm Italian response from Salvini.

The Humvee driver was waiting for them. “General Freeman?” he asked, unsure of just who was whom, since none of the four Special Forces team wore any insignia or rank. But it was Freeman who had the leader look.

“That’s me,” he told the driver.

“Sir, a Captain Brentwood is waiting at—”

“Guess he got your message,” cut in Aussie.

“Good,” answered Freeman, without breaking his stride, turning to Sal. “Don’t worry about making that call. Brentwood’s here.”

Sal looked about the fog-wreathed beach. “Where?”

“In town, you dork,” said Aussie.

“Well, least he could do was bring us an ale,” put in Choir.

“Son,” Freeman told the Humvee driver, “you can wait here — take a little unofficial furlough, or head back to Fort Lewis.”

The driver was nonplused, not knowing whether to be grateful or insulted at not being needed.

“Ah, yes, sir. Fine.”

Freeman sensed his disappointment. “I’d love to have you along. Fort Lewis tells me you’re a real Andretti.” The general smacked him affectionately on the shoulder. “Maybe next time.”

“Ah, yes, General.”

As the four SpecFor warriors piled into the Humvee, the egalitarian Aussie commented pompously, “He didn’t know who Andretti was.”

“Who is he?” asked Sal.

Aussie pushed the starter button. “You’re jerkin’ me off.”

“No,” said Sal. “Who was Andretti?”

“Race driver,” said Aussie.

“Yeah,” said Sal. “Mario. I know.”

“You’re gonna get it, Brooklyn. Right up the ass!”

“Promises!” responded Sal.

“Go to the hospital after we pick up Brentwood,” Freeman cut in abruptly, his tone signaling an end to Sal and Aussie’s banter. “I want you people on your toes. If I’m right about the minesweeper, this is going to be dicey.”

In the back, Sal glanced at Choir. Whenever the general said “you people,” it was a warning that the mission could be extraordinarily tough. The problem for Choir was that he thought the general was getting ahead of himself, so he made a side wager with Sal that the minesweeper hadn’t been sunk by a hostile.

The onetime Medal of Honor recipient looked even thinner than when Aussie and Freeman had last seen him on the firing range. He was standing at the deserted junction of Laurel and Railroad in full combat gear, and, even with its bulk, looked as if he’d lost weight. The sidearm on his right hip, Aussie noticed, was holstered back to front so that his still-functioning left hand could cross-draw it if necessary. Why on earth had the general asked him to come along? he wondered.

Brentwood had to use his left hand to get aboard the Humvee, his right arm still a stiff L-shape, its hand a perennially bunched fist.

Choir asked him anxiously, “What happened to that minesweeper, David? You hear anything?”

“It sank.”

“He knows that , you dodo,” Aussie told Brentwood. “But how’d it sink?”

“Don’t know,” said David, who then asked Freeman, “Where we going, General?”

“Hospital first.”

When they got there, Freeman asked Aussie to grab the five terrorist samples. Obviously in a hurry, he strode ahead to the front desk to arrange for immediate testing of the samples. Aussie came in a minute later, looking concerned.

“It’s all arranged,” Freeman told him. “Dr. Ramon here will do it for us soon as he can.”

The doctor nodded to Aussie, who exchanged greetings.

Returning to the Humvee, Aussie, in trepidation, told the general, “ Petrel ’s mate has screwed up. He only took four samples.”

The general frowned. “Didn’t you check ’em?”

“I thought there were — but you know, sir, we were in such a damn hurry.”

“Not good enough, Aussie!”

Back at the Humvee, the general was all business. “Listen up. We’re going to the East-West Café. We’ll be there in five minutes. There’ll be no time for dessert, so here’s the drill….”

Freeman was wrong — it took them eleven minutes to reach the café because of the traffic lights in the town. Not that many people were out and about; most of the refugees hadn’t returned yet. As Aussie waited on the second-to-last red, fingers tapping impatiently on the Humvee’s wheel, David Brentwood asked him, “Do you mind not doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Drumming your fingers,” he said, causing Sal and Choir to look straight ahead and not risk a “What’s eating him?” glance.

Then the general said, “Don’t censure me, boys. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was necessary.”

Their silence told Freeman that he was the only one in the team convinced there was a second sub in the choke point.

The light turned green.

“Shock and awe, gentlemen,” Freeman told them as the Humvee dropped Choir off in the alley behind the East-West Café. Aussie then made a sharp turn to bring the wide, stocky, no-nonsense vehicle to a pronounced stop in front of the café. Freeman, armed only with his HK 9mm sidearm, strode in, Aussie immediately behind him, HK at the ready. He was followed by Brentwood, then Sal, who, with his shotgun turned about, stood guard at the door.