Брайан Гарфилд - The Last Bridge

Kreizler sat in his own pain as if it were excrement. His eyes were not focused. The Colonel leaned forward and slapped his face. “Please pay attention, Captain.” The voice was effeminate, soft, cajoling. “My methods of persuasion will become less subtle as the hours wear on. Do you honestly believe yourself capable of withstanding me?”

Kreizler purposefully concentrated on a haze of swaying recollected visions, colors dimmed by pain. He slumped. The lamp’s dusty shafts of chalk light fell on the Vietnamese Colonel’s complacent face, the uniform meticulously pressed, the black bill of his cap polished with wax, the hollows of the eyes glowing. The Colonel’s high-pitched voice suddenly thrashed at him:

“I lose patience with you, Captain! Resistance will gain you only unbearable pain. You must talk now.”

“Come ahead, then,” Kreizler said drunkenly. “Try me.”

Graven-faced, Sergeant Khang squatted on the hill behind the battalion motor pool, fingering his jaw. The big truck park was almost deserted. A few soldiers moved around near the big repair garage, shifting in aimless patterns. Beyond and below, he had a vista of the garrison compound: drab, low buildings surrounding the muddy parade ground. The city climbed its slopes behind the garrison, sprawling across the hills; that was the way they had come, and the way they would have to leave.

He began to make his way down the mountain. His only weapon was an old Nambu automatic pistol, liberated from the dead North Vietnamese officer whose uniform he wore. He did not lift the Nambu from its brush-scarred leather scabbard. He walked boldly until he stood directly above the parking lot; across the tops of silent trucks he watched the soporific activity around the garage. He dropped onto the tarmac and threaded a path between rows of trucks and halftracks, jeeps and tanks. A vague plan of action took form in his mind. He circled the back of the garage and approached the front with a careless, mild air. Behind him he heard a side door latch open; he glanced around casually.

A stocky lieutenant emerged from the doorway, stiff and correct in a starched uniform. The Lieutenant lifted his hand to salute — an automatic gesture; then his hand became still, and his mouth twisted.

“Nguyen Khang!”

Sergeant Khang’s head rocked back. Panic froze him. He felt the hammer of his pulse; the crazy awareness of one thing seized his attention: it had stopped raining. He stood that way, baffled, and his mind grappled with a search of his memory, trying to recall when the rain had stopped.

The Lieutenant’s pistol came up. “So.”

“Luc Chau,” Khang said. His mouth clapped shut.

“I am.”

“Why do you put the gun on me?”

“Do you think I am a fool?” the Lieutenant demanded. “Where did you get that uniform?”

Sergeant Khang moved with care, turning his body around to face the man. “It is my uniform. I am a—”

“You are a liar,” said Lieutenant Chau. “Take out your pistol and drop it here.”

The Lieutenant walked forward. Nguyen Khang slowly withdrew the Nambu with thumb and forefinger and dropped it in front of him. All his Special Warfare training came back to him in a rush, and suddenly his greatest concern became the uncertainty whether one of the motor-pool soldiers might suddenly appear around the corner. No one was in sight. Lieutenant Chau said, “Colonel Trung will be very interested to see you. He will be pleased with my work.”

“You would sell your mother to Colonel Trung for a pat on the back from him. So Colonel Trung is here still?”

“He is our chief of intelligence.” Lieutenant Chau’s smile was a hard glisten of teeth. He held the gun steady on Khang’s chest while he stooped slowly to pick up the Nambu automatic.

The Lieutenant’s fingers touched the Nambu, and Sergeant Khang’s boot lashed forward. The heavy metal-soled jump boot cracked against Lieutenant Chau’s wrist. The pistol dropped. Chau shot upright; Sergeant Khang gripped the soft bill of the Lieutenant’s fatigue cap and jerked it savagely down over his eyes. Khang drove his bladed hand into Chau’s stomach, and when the man coughed, Khang wheeled behind him and took a precise grip on the back of his neck. It was an academic matter, then, the product of careful training — a few seconds of pressure on the carotid artery, behind the ear, produced immediate unconsciousness and quick death. There was not a sound.

Khang gathered the two pistols, slung the dead man across his back, and made a quick sprint for the nearest parked truck on the lot. He wasted no effort looking behind. If anyone caught sight of him, that would be the end of it. Looking around would not save him.

He dumped Lieutenant Chau into the back of the truck, climbed in, and gave himself a moment to breathe and sweat and calm himself.

He exchanged uniforms with the dead man, replacing Chau’s buttons with the captain’s insignia taken from the guerrilla officer; he emerged from the truck dressed in a fresh-pressed uniform. It was not even damp from the rain.

When he left the truck park, he walked with long strides directly across the compound. He hardly glanced at the wirefenced guardhouse.

He answered the transportation officer’s salute vaguely and glanced around the dingy office with the air of a man unconcerned and mild. “I prefer duty in Haiphong,” he said. “A man must become bored here.”

“I envy you,” said the transportation officer. “But one serves where one is needed.”

“Of course.”

“Our duty is to the state. One does not question the wisdom of the state.”

“Certainly,” said Sergeant Khang. He brushed imaginary lint from his jacket. “I have only stopped here to ask that you make ready a staff car. My orders are to escort Colonel Trung and the American prisoner to Hanoi for presentation to the intelligence officer of the Lao Dong.”

The transportation officer was a nervous little man with a small smear of a mustache. His eyes bulged like a hyperthyroid’s. “The Lao Dong? The American will be questioned by the Lao Dong?”

“By comrade Dinh himself,” said Khang, tossing off the statement.

“The American must be very valuable.”

“I suppose so,” said Khang. “I only obey my orders, you understand. You will have the staff car brought to the headquarters door at twenty minutes past noon precisely.”

“Not one minute later,” the transportation officer agreed eagerly.

Khang drew on his gloves and turned toward the door. He said casually, “Do you happen to know where the American prisoner is to be found?”

“I believe he is still being interrogated. By Colonel Trung himself.”

Khang nodded. His knees felt weak. “Thank you,” he said. “Twenty minutes past noon,” he added, and went out. The transportation officer’s voice followed him:

“Rely on me, Dai-uy. ”

McKuen eased the control yoke back. A yard-long chunk of ice broke off the port wing’s leading edge and clanged against some part of the fuselage. The plane dragged wearily against the air; ice, blunting the wings, reduced their lift, and he was burning fuel at a frightening rate. On its rubber mountings the panel of instruments vibrated, blurring the dials. A faint luminescence bloomed through the clouds — the sun trying to break through. He suffered an intense moment of heavy vibration, and then calm, with the engines throbbing in low-pitched struggle. The airspeed needle wavered between a hundred fifteen and a hundred twenty-five. Number two’s head-temperature had gone up fifteen degrees in as many minutes — indication enough that ice had begun to clog the airscoop. His mixtures were far too rich as it was; he dared not increase them. Slicing through the heavy sky, the props were barely visible; the exhausts were faint orange blossoms of light.