Брайан Гарфилд - The Last Bridge

“Where in hell is that machine gun?”

A spray of bullets from J. D. Hooker’s position cut ugly white scars across the metal of the truck bed and back fender. Hooker appeared on the road, jerking a grenade off his combat harness, and Tyreen slapped his voice at Hooker: “Cut that out, you fool!” Hooker did not hear him; the squat-browed Sergeant started running toward the truck, bent low and weaving. Theodore Saville wheeled past Tyreen and sprinted onto the road to intercept Hooker. Tyreen covered him with a tearing blast of fire into the tarp-covered truck. A body sagged against the tarp from inside, bulging it out. Saville made a low dive at Hooker’s knees and spilled the man down. The grenade rolled out of Hooker’s fist, and its handle popped away. Saville scrambled after it, got a grip on it, and threw it overhand down the road.

Tyreen saw it arc through the air; he dived flat and covered his head with his wrists. The explosion rocked the earth. He heard fragments swish through the elephant grass. When he lifted his head, Saville had rolled under the truck and Hooker was lurching to his feet. Tyreen could hear every syllable of Hooker’s savage curses. Saville yelled once and then, holding it by the muzzle, whacked his submachine gun out against Hooker’s shins. Hooker cried out and fell down. Saville dragged him under the truck.

Tyreen had a bad moment fumbling a new magazine into his weapon. Sergeant Khang was still putting bursts of fire through the tarpaulin. There was a single ragged after-volley of 7.62 fire from the bush across the road. Someone in the truck was moaning. When Khang’s gun ran dry, there was no shooting. Tyreen trained his sights on the tailgate, but no one put a foot out. He got up and made hand signals to Saville, under the truck. Saville shoved Hooker out of his way and crawled out, got to his knees, and moved softly alongside the truck, keeping his head down below the edge of the tarp. When he got to the tailgate, he locked his grip onto the submachine gun and wheeled upright, spraying a wicked flash of fire directly into the truck, playing his muzzle back and forth across the opening in the pulled-back tarp.

Saville ducked back around the fender and crouched by the rear tire, waiting. There was no response from inside.

Impatient, Tyreen walked onto the road. Hooker was crawling out from under the truck, all tangled up with the body of the dead driver. Up the road a few yards, Sergeant Khang stepped into sight and stood with his legs apart, gun braced on his hip. Tyreen hopped across a puddle and went past Hooker and climbed into the truck cab. There was a little window in the back of it, but the tarp came down just behind the window and he could not see into the bed of the truck. He slid across the seat and got out the far side of the truck, walked back to the tailgate and flipped the corner of the tarp back with his gunbarrel. Someone made a small sound, low in the throat. There was no shooting. The acrid stench of sulphur fumes was strong in Tyreen’s nostrils.

He pulled the tarp back with his fist and walked around behind the truck, pointing his gun and his eyes into the interior. There were three soldiers on the floor. Two of them were obviously dead. The floor was awash with blood. The third man lay broken across one of the others. He had two bullet holes in his face, but he was moaning softly.

Tyreen nodded to Saville. The big man climbed up inside and toed one of the dead men. He knelt over the wounded soldier, but the man was dead when Saville touched him. He had a brief look at the third man and climbed out of the truck.

Tyreen said, “Better check on Corporal Smith and those two that dived off the road. And find out why that machine gun wasn’t firing.”

Saville went into the grass. Sergeant Khang came up and Tyreen said, “Crawl underneath and see if we put any holes in the gas tank.”

“Sure,” said the Sergeant. “Just a cakewalk, right, Colonel?” There was a reckless shine in Khang’s eyes. He slid under the back of the truck.

Hooker sat out in the road massaging his shins. Tyreen stopped by him and looked down at the man with flat, angry eyes. “If you’d thrown that grenade in there, we’d have had a wrecked truck on our hands.”

“Better’n getting killed, Colonel.”

“Next time you’ll obey orders, Sergeant, or I’ll shoot you myself. Understood?”

Hooker’s eyes climbed up Tyreen’s body to his face. He did not speak. Corporal Smith came out of the bush and said, “Anybody hurt?”

Tyreen said, “What happened to those two soldiers?”

“One of them bought it,” said Smith.

Hooker said, “I guess that does it, then.”

“The hell it does,” said Corporal Smith. “The other one got away in the bushes. I couldn’t find him.”

“He’ll be raising the alarm, then,” Tyreen said. “We’ll have to get moving.” He put his eyes, hard as iron bullets, on J. D. Hooker. “You are in trouble with me as of right now, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Khang jackknifed out from under the rear axle and stood up, brushing himself off. “No damage under there,” he said. “None that I can see, anyway.”

Tyreen walked past the truck into the bush and strode through the grass with swimming motions. Combat tension glazed his cheeks. He found Saville kneeling beside the bipod-mounted machine gun. Sergeant Sun was sitting a little way back, his eyes round and anxious. Saville said, “He says the gun wouldn’t fire. I’m trying to find out what fouled up.” He was pulling the mechanism apart.

“Forget it,” Tyreen said. “One of them got away. They’ll have an alarm out within an hour or two. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait a minute.” Saville lifted the trigger mechanism and turned it over in his big hands. “Firing pin bent all out of shape. That’s what hung it up.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not right away. Not without tools.”

“Then leave the thing here,” Tyreen said. “Let’s go.”

When they reached the road, Khang and Smith had dragged the three dead men out of the truck bed. Sergeant Sun looked at the corpses, and the light changed behind his young eyes. Corporal Smith said, “What about burying these, Colonel?”

“Roll them off the road. We’re clearing out.”

Sergeant Khang’s head swiveled around. “Leave them out to rot?”

“I didn’t make the rules, Sergeant, I only live by them. Pile into the truck, everybody. Corporal Smith, you drive — you know the roads. I’ll ride with you in the cab.”

Tyreen got up into the high seat beside Corporal Smith. “That yellow hair of yours may get us in trouble. Put this cap on, and pull it low.”

Tyreen watched the others walk around to the back of the truck. Khang and Nhu Van Sun were wearing Vietminh uniforms stripped off the dead men: a line of red-rimmed holes ran across the back of the captain’s jacket drapped over Sergeant Khang’s shoulders. The truck rocked gently with the weight of men climbing into the back. Saville was a monstrous shape coming forward through the rain from the elephant grass. He stopped by the truck door. “I’ve got that busted firing pin in my pocket. If the Reds find that gun, they won’t get much use out of it.”

“Get in,” Tyreen said.

The truck settled when Saville put his weight on the back. Beyond the truck’s shadow, the road lay in a wash of pale light, glimmering and soaked. Tyreen looked at Corporal Smith’s shadowed face. “Let’s go.”

The truck chugged into life. Beads of water shimmered on the trembling hood. Corporal Smith thrust the knobbed floor stick into gear and slowly jockeyed the truck back and forth to turn it around in the narrow road. He grunted with effort and said, “Be quicker to take this road all the way up, Colonel. But we stand a better chance going up the mountain behind Giay Nghèo. Less patrols up that way.”