Брайан Гарфилд - The Last Bridge

“You’ll have to take those.” Tyreen handed his sidearm to Khang. Sergeant Sun held out his hand and accepted Theodore Saville’s pistol. Khang waved the automatic at Tyreen and grinned. “Okay, Colonel. I got to admit there’s been times today when I wanted a chance to wave a gun at you.”

“Careful where you point that thing,” Saville growled.

Sergeant Khang turned to walk around the car; Saville opened the front door to slide in; and Sergeant Sun, lifting Saville’s pistol in his fist, said sharply, “Stop now.”

Saville had his head bowed in the car doorway. He backed out. “What the hell?”

Sun had his pistol trained on Nguyen Khang. He barked rapidly at Khang in Vietnamese, and slowly Khang let the gun fall from his hand. On Sun’s command, he kicked it away from him. Sun’s face was broken out in sweat. Tyreen said, “So that’s the way it is.”

Nhu Van Sun said in Vietnamese, “It is a fine coup for me to bring all of you to Colonel Trung. It is a fine coup. You will get in the front of the car now, all three. I will ride in the back. The fat Captain will drive.” Sun showed his teeth. “It would have been wise to listen to the Sergeant Hooker, no?”

Saville said, “Why’d you wait so long before you jumped us?”

“It was most easy to allow you to deliver yourselves to Chutrang, Captain. Now please do not delay me more. Get in the car.”

Sun backed into the open rear door of the car and held his pistol across the window sash. “Slowly, please. And please remember that the sound of one shot from here will bring many soldiers. You cannot escape now. You — the traitor to the people — you will get in first. Di di! ”

Khang got into the car and slid across the seat. Tyreen squeezed in beside him. He felt the nearness of Sun’s pistol to the back of his neck. The back door stood open. Saville started to get into the driver’s seat, but as he turned, his hand came up from waist level and suddenly the great slab of his palm was jammed against the muzzle of Sun’s pistol. Sun’s finger contracted on the trigger, but the pressure of Saville’s powerful grip against the recoil spring kept the weapon from exploding. Saville’s left hand whipped across to crack Sun’s wrist. Sun struggled grimly, his hand caught in the door. Saville’s hand turned white against the pistol; and Tyreen, reaching across the back of the seat, lodged both thumbs against the Vietnamese’s throat.

Saville hooked back the pistol’s hammer with his left hand and wrenched it out of Sun’s flailing grip. Sergeant Khang was twisting in his seat, reaching for Sun’s free arm that tugged at Tyreen’s hand. It was not needed. The pressure of Tyreen’s hands killed the man in a few silent seconds.

Tyreen pulled his hands away and sagged in the seat, staring. Theodore Saville said something, a sour grunt. Saville tugged Nhu Van Sun out of the car. He looked both ways and rolled the body beneath the belly of the big tank.

Sweat poured from Tyreen’s face. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”

Saville had hands like hams. They trembled, and Saville squeezed them together, licking his lips and not looking at anyone. Tyreen slid across behind the wheel, drained and sick. “Sergeant Khang.”

Khang did not answer, but his face came around. Tyreen said, “Get into the car.”

Khang said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” His mouth worked. “Listen — about him.” His head turned on bulging neck tendons.

Tyreen saw the frenzied glitter of his eyes. “All right. Don’t talk about it. It’s all been said.”

“It has?” When Khang was not laughing, he had a sad face. His eyes were fierce black against the skin.

Tyreen said angrily, “The cards are dealt. Play your hand, Sergeant, or throw it in.”

“I want it clear,” Khang said. “Or do you vote like Hooker?”

Khang was asking for trust. Tyreen watched, his face like a blue-steel hatchet, slightly rusty. He said, “Nobody’s going to sell you into Egypt, Sergeant.”

The pistol lay cocked on the running board. Tyreen reached for it. Khang’s eyes watched, cynical and distrusting. Tyreen handed the pistol to him, butt first. When Khang took the weapon, Tyreen said, “He was just obeying orders, Sergeant. Just like you and me.”

Khang climbed into the back of the car, moving arthritically. “You got to be kidding, Colonel.”

“Why?”

Dismally, Tyreen turned the key in the ignition. The engine popped and began to hum. Theodore Saville climbed in and slammed the door more loudly than he had to.

The car began to roll forward. Tyreen’s hands slipped on the wheel. The phenomenon of death made its impact once, and the impact stayed locked in forever. He thought, you could only witness a single death in a lifetime. A man only became a killer once. See one, and you’d seen them all.

Tyreen stopped the car in front of headquarters at fourteen minutes past twelve. He said, “We’ve got six minutes, and then all hell breaks lose.”

“Got you, Skipper,” said Nguyen Khang under his breath. He stepped out of the car brandishing his pistol. A sergeant came out of the building and stopped, arrested by shock. Flustered, the man made a belated salute and opened his mouth to speak. Nguyen Khang barked at him:

“These prisoners are to be handed over to Colonel Trung. Take me to him.”

The sergeant saluted again and almost tripped himself when he turned to hold the building door open. Khang opened the car door and waved his pistol. Saville climbed out and murmured, “Don’t overdo it,” and walked up onto the porch. Tyreen went past Khang’s gun and said loudly in English, “You’re making a bad mistake about this whole thing, Captain.”

Khang yelled at him in Vietnamese and prodded him in the back. Tyreen followed Theodore Saville into the building. The big corridor was active with soldiers hurrying about on errands. The North Vietnamese sergeant walked past Tyreen and led the way down the hall. Khang marched right behind them. Tyreen felt sick to his stomach. Feverhaze clouded his vision. A Vietnamese lieutenant strutted out of an office and halted the sergeant in his tracks, staring at Tyreen and Saville and asking questions harshly. Nguyen Khang spoke curtly and the lieutenant drew himself up and backed out of the way, staring straight ahead.

Soldiers halted and watched the procession move past. Tyreen felt the dig of Khang’s gun against his kidneys. The corridor seemed a hundred yards long. Two officers, a major and a subaltern, appeared in a doorway. The major’s eyes narrowed down, and his index finger stroked one end of his mustache. He wore a leather flying jacket and tennis shoes. His attention flicked from Saville to Tyreen and then settled on Nguyen Khang; his frown was thoughtful and suspicious. Khang made a flat-palmed salute when he passed the major. Tyreen could feel the major’s eyes boring into his back, but there was no outcry and, abruptly, the Vietnamese sergeant stopped by a door and knocked timidly.

There was no answer to his knock. The sergeant looked inquiringly at Khang. Khang nodded. The sergeant opened the door and went in. Saville and Tyreen were right behind him. Tyreen heard Khang close the door.

No one occupied the office, but Tyreen heard a muffled voice through a side door. The sergeant was headed toward that door with his fist upraised when Nguyen Khang said, “Wait.” The sergeant turned obediently. “That is Colonel Trung’s private office?”

The sergeant shook his head. “The room for interrogation, Dai-uy. ”

“Perhaps we should not disturb the Colonel.”

The sergeant looked relieved. Khang said, “I shall wait here with the prisoners. You may return to your duties.”

“Thank you, Dai-uy. You wish Chinese tea or food?”