Cambodian Hellhole (11 page)

Hold on. A little longer. Just a second more now. It can't get any worse than this.

And, of course, it got worse immediately. As the flame continued to lick his feet, playing with the toes on one and then the other, singeing and blistering the flesh, the second guard stepped forward, swinging his cane at Stone as if the soldier's body were a gong and he was announcing the arrival of royalty.

Stone clenched his teeth and shut his eyes, swallowing the scream that rose unbidden in his throat. He would not give these shits the satisfaction, and would not let them see how close he was . . .

He would die before he told them anything, before he broke.

A single word from the officer, and his two tormentors withdrew. Even in their absence, now, the pain took longer to recede.

"You are a stubborn man," the camp commander said. "But I am patient. We have all night, all day tomorrow, the day after. There is nothing but time here. Endless time."

He waited for a moment, letting that sink in, and then began the questioning anew.

"How many men are with you, Duke?"

Stone almost manage the smile then, his mind focusing on the endless tunnel of the night, and on the light beyond. He could last a little longer, and beyond that . . .

Wiley, Loughlin, and the others were still out there, still free and ready to blast him the hell out of here. If they had been captured, he would not be hanging here in the commandant's office. There would be no questions—or at least the questions would be different ones.

There was a chance. A good one. He could make it yet; all of them could make it out of here alive.

If he could just hold on a little longer.

One of tile canes smacked against his ribs, almost casually, and then the tip came back to prod him, poking at one of his nipples.

"How many men?" the commander repeated.

"No men," Stone said again, trying to disguise some of the weariness he felt.

The canes fell in unison across his kneecaps, driving jagged bolts of pain along his thighs and up his spine.

"So foolish to come out of this a cripple, when you will have to answer anyway, eventually."

Stone watched the commander's face, trying to read something behind the narrow eyes. There was hatred in there—of Americans, of the West in general—and something else, something like fear.

Of course.

Stone tried to speak, his lips and throat working, producing little croaking sounds, barely audible from where the interrogator sat. The commander frowned, leaning forward, finally craning on the edge of his chair to hear whatever Stone was saying, or was about to say.

"What is it? Speak up!"

With the last of his strength, the last of his bloody saliva, Stone spat full in the officer's face, blinding him momentarily as he rocked back in his wooden chair, cursing incoherently.

The guards did not require a signal this time. They were on him instantly, flailing with the canes, cursing in a rhythmic chanting cadence, timing the epithets to coincide with the blows they were raining on his defenseless, inverted form.

Stone rode it out, no longer having strength left to protect his face and head, to avoid the slashing blows. A cane connected with his temple, another smashed in on target over his left ear, and he was spinning downward, downward, into darkness . . .

C
aptain Nguyen Ngu lit a slender cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs, savoring the tart aroma, waiting for it to mask the smell of blood, sweat, and urine that had made his office reek like a slaughterhouse.

The stains on the floorboard were another matter. He would have one of the prisoners attempt to clean them up tomorrow, when the others were at work in the mines. One of the wounded or ill, perhaps, fit for nothing more than kneeling, scrubbing up the dirt of others.

Perhaps the new arrival would be perfect for it.

Ngu reconsidered. If he was not questioning the tall American tomorrow, he would send him to the mines along with the others. He did not want him here, inside the camp itself, in case his men should risk a foolhardy rescue attempt.

Captain Ngu had no doubt whatsoever that there were other men, probably nearby, perhaps watching the corn-pound at this very instant. The story of a lone American smuggler wandering through Cambodia was totally preposterous, a joke.

And Ngu did not find it amusing.

There were others, yes, beyond a doubt. And they would come for their companion, if they valued him at all.

Indeed, they would not be here if they did not plan to penetrate the compound somehow, for some reason.

He had puzzled out the alternatives, including a simple reconnaissance in preparation for a later raid to free the prisoners, but nothing made sense. If this had been a simple scouting mission, the American would not have come inside the fence. Besides, the flabby U.S. government had long since ceased seeking actively the return of American prisoners of war. The politicians who ran Washington had given up on something like three thousand uniformed combatants, dragging out their memory on Flag Day, using it as a propaganda weapon only when the need arose.

Ngu understood from sources in Ho Chi Minh City that the majority of American P.O.W.'s had now been cleared off the rosters of the missing by administrative findings of presumed death. It pleased him to see the capitalist cowards exposed for what they really were: leeches who would use their own in an unpopular imperialist war, and then discard them like so many of their no-deposit-no-return containers.

This American would not be on official business, no . . . but his very presence here, now or at all times, would be sufficient to create an international incident of sorts. It would backfire on the very government that had doubtless tried to discourage him from coming in the first place.

Ngu started ticking off the possibilities.

He had the man in custody; it was his show. He could report it at his leisure, certainly when everything was well under control—and reap the rewards for handing the government a valuable propaganda tool.

It should be more than enough, given time and fortune, to get him the hell out of this stinking pesthole and back to Hanoi. He was sick of jungle duty and the reeking prisoners of every race with whom he was forced to deal on a daily basis. He had not joined the army to become a prison guard, and if something did not happen soon in his career . . .

But it had happened. Here. Now.

The American scum had unwittingly handed Ngu his transfer—probably a promotion, as well—on the proverbial silver platter.

No. Make that gold.

Like the gold the prisoners were mining in the hills nearby. How many tons had they taken out of the rocky caverns in two years' time?

How much of it had he kept for himself?

The answer to the second question could be measured with a great deal more precision than the answer to the first. And when Ngu returned to Hanoi, or wherever he was transferred, he would be able to afford the good life.

Women.

Wine.

More women.

Even in a socialist republic, there was room for personal advancement, private pleasure. He had learned as much during his days as a combatant in the revolution, and beyond. Somehow the people's government had stopped short of actually extending to the masses—which was fine with Ngu.

He was no longer one of the masses, the peasants who groveled and scraped in the paddies for their meager bowls of rice.

He was on his way to the top. Ironically, an American would help to put him there.

If nothing went disastrously wrong.

He pushed the thoughts of his golden future aside and returned for the moment to the present, his defensive preparations for the camp.

Ngu had already doubled the sentries along the entire perimeter of the compound, and tripled them around the prison cages in its center. No one would pass in or out tonight, and as for the drain that had admitted their unexpected guest, two men with AK-47s would be down inside it for the duration of the crisis, waiting for a backup team to show.

He had resisted the suggestion of a night patrol, unsatisfied with the meaningless answers his prisoner had given him, and unwilling to risk a portion of his smallish garrison force in the darkness, going up against an unknown force of unknown capabilities.

His soldiers knew the surrounding terrain, of course, but their world was confined primarily to the compound, the road that led away from it, and the mines at the other end.

They could launch a respectable patrol at need, as on the rare occasions when a prisoner made a pathetic break for freedom . . . but they were a long way from being seasoned jungle fighters. Most of them had come into the service since 1975, when the real fighting with the French and Americans was over, and only a scattered handful of them had seen sporadic action against the Chinese in recent years. Aside from himself, there were not a dozen seasoned combat veterans in the garrison.

Ngu was not concerned. Not overly, at any rate.

His force was large enough to handle anything that came his way, provided that it came without air support, armor, or artillery. From the looks of the American they had in custody, he was expecting a small force, Special Forces caliber, rigged for light combat, hit-and-run.

It would be no problem.

He briefly considered suspending mining operations until the issue was resolved, then quickly rejected the idea. The per diem was all-important, the critical factor here and now. His superiors would clearly expect him to deal with this minor-league crisis. without sacrificing production in the mines.

He would not disappoint them, Ngu decided. There was time yet for him to become a hero, the indispensible man. With this American in custody, and soon his backup team as well, he would be something of a national celebrity. A hero, yes. And deservedly so.

Ngu stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, smiling to himself through the rising screen of smoke. He closed his eyes and dreamed of greatness.

C
rouching in the undergrowth, Hog Wiley watched the camp, unmoving, unblinking, studying each detail of the layout as best he could by Starlite scope.

They did not possess a generator down there, from the look of things—or else they were not using it tonight. A bonfire in the center of the compound, and lanterns or torches around at intervals, provided spotty illumination while leaving much of the camp's interior in darkness.

That was probably deliberate, the Texan knew. With Stone in custody, whether they had broken him or not, the commander had to know that there were other hostiles in the immediate vicinity. He could not deny them visibility by day, but in the darkness . . .

Hog had half expected a patrol to issue forth when Stone was bagged, but it was too late now, he knew. Tomorrow, perhaps, they could expect a hunter-killer team to come shuffling after them.

And they would greet them with open arms, oh yes. A little something to remember them by on their way to hell.

It ate at him to think of Stone down there, crammed into one of the holding cages—or worse. He could not picture Stone dead, would not allow himself to picture it—although he knew the possibility existed, if Stone had proved too damned resistant under questioning, or if he had said something—anything—that might have pissed off the commander of the garrison.

They had not heard a shot, granted, but there were many ways to die inside a prison compound. Stone could have been knifed or had his throat slit, been strangled or beaten to death . . .

Hog cut off the gruesome litany, making his mind a deliberate blank to drive away the images of slaughter. Time enough for that shit later, if the evil prophecy came true. When they had found the body, checked the pulse, then he would think about grieving for one of the few men he had called friend in recent years.

Mark Stone was a survivor—first, last, and always. If there was any way to come out of this thing alive and kicking, Stone could be counted upon to come up with it. At times his skills seemed infinite, and yet . . .

He had been captured.

It was a fluke, Wiley knew. It could happen to anyone, but he had to wonder how much Stone's personal stake in the mission had contributed to carelessness.

The captain had been wired, no doubt about it, when he eased himself inside that drainage pipe and slithered out of sight. Hog did not know the man called Lynch, but Stone owed him one.

A debt of blood and honor, from the war.

Okay. Hog understood that much. He'd run up a few such debts himself.

One of them was owed to Stone.

The man whom Hog affectionately called Cap had saved Wiley more than once from certain death when they were teamed together in Vietnam. On one occasion, Stone had even pulled him out of a melee behind the lines which could have cost his life—or a dishonorable discharge, at the very least.

And Stone had kept right on saving him, as recently as Bangkok, two days back, when every knife-happy shit in that rundown whorehouse had been out for a slice of Hog, and there was nothing there to hold them back. Stone had been there for Wiley—along with Loughlin—and again, the captain had pulled him out of the crapper.