Ian Slater: Asian Front

In the trailer it was chaos — men shouting, wood and aluminum splintering from Aussie’s and Salvini’s machine gun fire at what was virtually point-blank range. Brentwood tossed in two grenades and covered his ears. The explosions totaled the trailer, fire and smoke causing the remaining Chinese, about six of them, to come out, one firing a pistol, the other falling, another on fire, and Aussie felt himself slammed back into the sidecar seat, his left shoulder warm and wet. David could now see the motorcycle and sidecar tracks leading from the RAM-C to the radar van and within a minute was over by it, Aussie giving all the weight from his right shoulder to the machine gun’s stock and spraying the hut, one man falling down the stairs, dead before he hit the ground, another coming out from beneath the hut, his hands up, frantically yelling.

Salvini kept his Heckler & Koch on him while Brentwood tossed in two more grenades. The hut boomed and issued forth a rancid electrical-fire smell, smoke pouring through the shattered door seams.

Salvini told Brentwood to take them up close to the radar van, then pulled a pin out of the grenade, stood back, counted one, two, threw it at the radar mast, and quickly dashed under the van. There was a bluish purple flash above them, and then the mast was nothing more than a forlorn and tangled web of heat-fused steel, still standing, remarkably enough, but in no shape for reuse.

“What do we do with him?” Aussie said, indicating the Chinese soldier, his hands still thrust up high in the air, standing about six yards from them. “Can’t shoot the bastard. Can’t take him back.”

“Let him go!” Brentwood said.

“Vamoose!” Salvini said to the Chinese soldier.

“Go on!” Aussie added. “Piss off!”

The man took off in panic, glanced back briefly, and kept running.

“Oh, shit!” Aussie said, but he was too late, a mine exploding so powerfully that all Aussie could see in his night-vision goggles was a fine spray like a reddish fountain blown awry in the wind. It was the man’s blood vaporized by a mine that Freeman’s troops called “pink mist.”

As they were tracing their way back, Choir got on the radio network, informing Freeman’s HQ that “Mount Rushmore is ours. Repeat, Mount Rushmore—”

“No it isn’t — goddamn it!” Freeman’s loud reply came. “We’re still getting radar signals from the same damn sector.”

“Maybe so, General,” Brentwood reported, “but they’re not able to send their reports to any RAM-Center because—”

“Goddamn it!” Freeman shouted. “I called in TACAIR and we’ve lost three Thunderbolts already.”

It was at that moment that Brentwood, looking at Aussie, experienced a sinking feeling.

“Jesus!” Aussie said. “It’s in the forest. That trailer we shot up must’ve only been a relay. The friggin’ radar management center is in the bloody forest.”

“Then,” Freeman shouted, “take it out!”

With that, Freeman was off the air and silence reigned over the most embarrassed SAS/D troopers in all of Second Army, until Aussie proclaimed, “Must have land lines.”

“You’re right,” Brentwood said. “Fiber-optic probably. To stop our aircraft jamming their communication they’d have to use land lines running to a central control.”

“From that trailer we shot up,” Salvini put in.

“You see any?” Aussie asked. “Anyone?”

There was no answer.

“All right, let’s go back,” Aussie said.

“You’re wounded,” Brentwood said.

“Nah — just a nick in the shoulder. I’ll be all right. You coming with us, CBN?” Aussie added.

“I stay here,” the reporter answered.

“Can the bike and sidecar unit carry four of us back there?” asked Choir.

“Piece of cake,” Aussie said. “Come on.”

“So,” Jay said, watching Lana looking at the crushed ice like a crystal ball, turning the glass, her mind obviously not with him. “Tell me about this Shirer guy.”

“He’s a pilot,” she said, taking another sip. “I met him at-”

“I know when you met him. What’s he like?”

“Kind, considerate.” She touched the glass, tracing a line with her finger across the condensation. “He’s nice.”

“Well,” Jay said, with an air of magnanimity, “I hope it works out.”

“Thanks.”

“To—” Jay hesitated. “What’s his first name?”

“Franklin,” she said.

“Frank!” The glasses clinked again. “Sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

She was sorely tempted by the lobster cocktail. “No— I’m—” She yawned. “I’m fine.”

“Fine! You’re beautiful. If you’d have me back, babe, I’d—” He fell silent. She’d speared the olive with the swizzle stick and he watched her take it to her mouth, leaning forward, her breasts the more tantalizing for being hidden in the uniform, the uniform that carried with it the suggestion of regulations, conformity — the very things that excited him to violate. “God but you’re beautiful. Now don’t get mad. Just a compliment.”

“I’m not mad,” she said, taking another sip then sitting back against the plush padded wall of the booth. She looked around. It was the first time she’d been to the Davy Jones Restaurant. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said.

“Huh — oh. Thought you’d been here before?”

“No. Just heard of it. Navy lieutenants can’t afford eating out. Not in restaurants anyway.”

“Then have dinner. Come on, relax. I’m not trying to hit on you. You believe that?”

“I don’t know anything about you,” she said, her finger trailing the edge of the glass. “I thought I did once but I don’t.” She took another sip.

“You think I’m an animal,” he said.

“Not all the time.” She looked around the restaurant. “When are those papers coming?”

“Any minute.”

Before she could ask him any more questions about the papers he rambled on, “Told them to take them up to my room, but I can see now there’s no way you’d come up to sign them.”

Lana’s smile was a worldly one — a world away from the shy virgin that Jay had married and debased until she’d fought her way back to self-respect. Her look now told him, “Come on, Jay — you take me for a fool?”

“So,” he said. “I’ll get someone over here from the Excelsior. If you don’t mind a lawyer sitting in.”

“Why should I?” She took another sip, visibly more relaxed and feeling more in control of the situation.

“Okay,” he said, lifting his drink. “To a civil parting of the ways. No hard feelings.”

She sighed, and he saw her eyes going out of focus.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She yawned. “Why-?”

“I dunno — you don’t look so good. I told you, they work you too hard at that—”

The thud of her head knocked over the glasses, and Jay was by her side in two seconds. “Hey, babe—”

The barman came over. “Is there anything wrong, Mr. La Roche?”

“No,” Jay said sarcastically. “She’s fine. Loves crashing on tables.”

“Should I call a doctor?”

“No — she’s got low blood pressure. Happens all the time. She’ll be right in a few minutes.”

A man appeared from one of the booths, looking concerned, coming over to see if he could help. Jay was lifting her up, putting her over his shoulder. “Better send dinner up to the room,” he told the maitre d’-cum-manager.

“Certainly, sir. Should I ring a doctor?”

“No, I told you it’s just a bit of low blood pressure. She’ll be right as rain in a little while. You could give us a hand up on the elevator.”

“Of course,” the maitre d’ said. “Marge, you clean up the table.”