Брайан Гарфилд - The Last Bridge

“Kicks,” he said.

Foliage rattled when he moved. He wanted that jeep. His feet were blistered, his legs were tired. The jeep engine grew louder, picking up revolutions on the flats with a grating noise. Twigs reported the crush of tires. McKuen lifted his gun and waited by the edge of the road.

On a sunbaked shelf of yellow rock, Tyreen lay prone with glare narrowing his eyes. Theodore Saville’s basso profundo rumbled softly across the rock:

“It sounds like a jeep.”

J. D. Hooker said, “I don’t see any road down there.”

And Sergeant Khang answered him. “That’s the road they use to reach the bridge garrison. It keeps pretty close to the river.”

The breeze had died. Heat swelled along the rock face. Tyreen studied the jungle treetops with heightened perception that made every object sharp-edged and clearly splashed with color. A stray idea began to cross his mind. It was cut off abruptly by the rattle of a submachine gun and the answer of two or three rifles, not far below in the rain forest.

The jeep had stopped moving. Hooker said, “What now, for Christ’s sake?”

Saville said, “It’s none of our business.”

“Maybe,” Tyreen said. “But it sounds like two or three against one.”

“Some stupid Yard,” said Hooker. “They’ve probably got him by now.”

“If they had him,” Tyreen said, “they wouldn’t be making so much noise.”

A soldier ran into sight forty yards below, stood irresolutely for an instant, and broke into a run with his bayoneted rifle at the ready position. Theodore Saville lifted his chopper and fired a three-second burst. The soldier dropped. Tyreen’s eyes whipped around to Saville’s, and in that moment of interlocked glances they made a wordless decision and scrambled off the rock, running down into the rain forest. Hooker ran after them — after the promise of action — and Khang followed Hooker.

Tyreen stopped by the dead soldier. He heard nothing until a single gunshot sounded, a thinned report through the trees. Tyreen turned around in time to see Hooker, cursing over his submachine gun; it would not fire. Tyreen could not see Hooker’s intended target. A rifle opened up, out of sight; the echoes of its shots rolled through the jungle. Hooker picked up the dead man’s bayoneted rifle and swung back into the trees. Tyreen saw him lift his arm and hurl the rifle like a spear.

Tyreen moved forward, his chopper lifted halfway to the shoulder. He passed a tree and saw Hooker bending over something; Hooker’s knife rose and fell. Someone called out. Tyreen’s attention whipped through the forest, and he saw George McKuen standing splay-footed, arched over his submachine gun. The gun made a racket and quieted down. Tyreen ran through the undergrowth. He saw a boyish grin cut across McKuen’s red-stubbled cheeks. McKuen’s bright flash of hair stood out in wild disorder.

The first thing McKuen said was, “There’s three of them. I killed one.”

“Then they’re all taken out.”

McKuen’s shoulders sagged. “Colonel, you looked like the cavalry coming over the hill.”

“What in blazes are you doing down here?”

“Trying to steal a jeep,” McKuen said. He sat down uncertainly and apologized: “I’m a little tired.”

“Where’s Shannon?”

“He didn’t make it.” McKuen worked his boot around on his foot. “Feet are fine for propping on furniture and pushing pedals, Colonel, but one thing they’re bloody well not made for, and that’s walking.” He shook his head and blinked. “I suppose it wouldn’t be fittin’ for me to ask where you people came from?”

“Lieutenant,” Tyreen said, “I’d explain it to you if I thought I’d believe it myself.”

He was trying to conceal the fact that he was breathing hard. He watched the others come up — Saville and Sergeant Khang and, finally, Hooker cursing in a lackluster monotone and trying to clear a dented cartridge out of his submachine gun.

Saville started talking to McKuen. Tyreen walked away and stopped Sergeant Khang. “Does that road go by the water station on the railroad?”

“Yes, sir. Two, three miles back.”

“Find out if that jeep’s still working.”

McKuen was speaking loudly to Saville: “I want to resign, Captain. I want to quit.”

Looking pleased, Saville said, “Sure, George. Just wait a minute, and I’ll call you a taxi.”

It was the first time in a long time that Tyreen had seen Saville smile.

The water tank was a solitary structure in the rain forest, deserted and silent. They got out of the jeep, and Sergeant Khang was complaining: “Maybe it worked for us once, Colonel, but that kind of stunt can’t work twice in a row. We’ll get our pants shot off.”

The tracks came out of the jungle, passed the tall water tower, and plunged back into timber and undergrowth. The river lapped its banks. A tiny wooden dock jutted out into the water.

Tyreen told Khang, “Loosen some wires under the hood, in case they want to check your story.”

The jeep stood beside the tracks. Khang threw up his hands. “Colonel, I’ve known since we left Saigon that you were out of your gourd. But I’m still alive, playing it your way. So whatever you say, sir.”

Tyreen said, “There ought to be a freight along soon. Hooker...?”

Hooker put his ear to the track and got up shaking his head. George McKuen, a disheveled scarecrow in tattered cloth and bandages, sat on the front fender. Saville gave him a package of rations, and McKuen attacked the food like a drug addict snatching an overdue fix. But other than hunger he revealed all the feelings of a cement slab. Tyreen’s lips pushed out and down, keeping time. He took note of the lifelessness of McKuen’s expression. Don’t think about it , he thought. There was too much to think about. He pictured Nhu Van Sun and Corporal Smith and Warrant Officer Shannon and the delicate features of Lin Thao. And the echoes of Captain Eddie Kreizler’s talk kept banging around. Who do you think you are — General Robert E. Lee?

He realized that McKuen was talking to him:

“... have to fill it in a little slow for us country boys, Colonel, but do we by any chance have the wherewithal to be extractin’ ourselves from this bloody hinterland?”

Saville answered the question. “We got our orders this morning by radio. Blow the bridge and get down the river. A submarine from the Seventh Fleet will pick us up at midnight at the mouth of the Sang Chu.”

“Blow the bridge,” McKuen said, “and travel forty miles of jungle river. In — what? — twelve hours, maybe? Thirteen hours? Captain, I could conceivably be wrong, but nobody here looks like Tarzan to me.” He considered it. “Still and all, I’m thinkin’ if we don’t get there by midnight, we won’t get there at all. Am I right, gentlemen?”

No one troubled to answer him. McKuen nodded as if to confirm his estimate.

Tyreen said, “There may be a flatcar back near the tail of the train with an antiaircraft crew. Theodore, that’s your job. Sergeant Hooker, you’ll have about eighteen minutes to set your charges on the engine. And remember this: a nearmiss counts in a game of horseshoes, but not up here. Use a sixty-second fuse, and don’t light it until you get my signal. As soon as the fuse is lit, we leave the train. Sergeant Khang and I will keep the engine crew occupied. Any questions?”

McKuen said, “What about me?”

“You’re just along for the ride, Lieutenant.”

“That’ll be bloody refreshing for a change.”

But McKuen’s eyes were bloodshot, and his tone was dull, and the slack attitude of his body belied the good humor of his words.