Blood & Tacos #3 Read online

  He and Tara crossed from the Huey to the trio of waiting soldiers.

  The ranking man stepped forward. He had the build and the leathery features of a farmer, thirtyish, with a sunburned crew cut and flinty eyes. He did not salute. Enemy snipers loved to disrupt the chain of command, and seeing who was saluted made selecting targets easy. Saluting was avoided in the field.

  “Major, I’m Captain Larson, Executive Officer in Charge. Welcome to Firebase Tiger, though I imagine you’d rather be someplace else.”

  The man next to Larson was a strapping man with a caffè latte complexion and E-6 stripes on his sleeve. “That goes for every mother’s son in this hell hole, sir.”

  Larson said, “Easy, Top. Major, this is Sergeant Hines. He’s my top shirt.”

  “I know,” said McCall. “I studied your personnel files on the flight in.”

  Hines kept shifting his attention between them and scanning the darkening jungle beyond the perimeter.

  The third man was a first lieutenant named Grey and everything about him matched his name. Blond-haired, in his late twenties, there was paleness to the junior officer that was almost albino-like except for the empurpled, swollen area around a bandage at his right temple.

  Grey said, “Sergeant Hines speaks the truth. I wish I’d never heard of Firebase Tiger.”

  McCall said, “You have a colonel who was fragged.”

  Larson nodded. “Lieutenant Colonel Emmett, 13th Infantry Battalion. Someone tossed a hand grenade into his hooch just before dawn and splashed the walls with his guts.”

  “Hooch” was GI slang for makeshift living quarters. “Fragging” was another recently coined term. Bad command decisions by an officer too often got good soldiers killed. Sometimes an officer’s own men—considering it more an act of survival than murder—would toss a grenade into the officer’s hooch, blowing the officer into itty bitty officer parts—“frag” him, in other words—before the officer got anyone else killed.

  “Where’s the body now?”

  Larson said, “What was left of it was tagged and bagged and sent to Saigon on the daily chopper run.”

  Grey cleared his throat and nodded at Tara. “Uh, if you don’t mind, Major, who is she?”

  “Her? Name’s Carpenter. Pretend she’s not here. Okay, Captain, show me where the fragging took place.”

  Larson led them toward a squalid, dust covered pile of sandbags that was somewhat bigger than the other hooches.

  “The colonel’s hooch was next to the main bunker.”

  Tara commenced taking pictures.

  Activity swirled around them; a world of coarse language, exhaust fumes and the clicking and clanking of engines, equipment, and weaponry. Nearly every soldier in sight was toting an M-16 and a wary attitude. The shadows of encroaching night deepened by the minute.

  The colonel’s hooch was a low, ten-by-twelve, makeshift structure of timber and plywood beneath a shell of sandbags. Its entrance was charred, misshapen from the outward force of the murderous blast. McCall stooped and entered while the others grouped behind him outside.

  Walls were splashed with gore. Flies buzzed, thick and loud. The sickly sweet smell of death was almost overpowering in the enclosed space.

  “Did anyone see anything?”

  Larson shook his head, negative. “Everyone heard the blast but Security was paying attention to outside the perimeter. The nearest personnel when it happened were me and Sergeant Hines and the lieutenant.”

  Grey indicated his bandage. “I caught this when my patrol was ambushed the other night. I was laid up in my hooch, woozy on pain pills the medic gave me. But we compared notes. No one saw anything. It wasn’t the VC. They’d never breach our perimeter.”

  Hines indicated the Tactical Operations command bunker.

  “The captain and I were sprucing up the files for the Inspector General’s visit day after tomorrow. If it hadn’t been for a couple of walls between the colonel’s hooch and the TOC, we’d have been hamburger too.”

  “Any ideas about who’d want the colonel dead bad enough to frag him?”

  Larson said, “Suspects?” The flint was cold in his eyes. “Yeah, I could think of a few.”

  Grey cleared his throat. “You might as well go ahead and tell him, Cap.”

  Tara said, “Tell us what, Captain Larson?”

  This got McCall’s goat.

  “Not us, ma’am. Me.” He spoke to the men. “I take it the colonel was not well liked.”

  Hines chuckled. “I’ll bet you’re saying that just because someone fragged his ass to hell.”

  McCall said, “Emmett was assigned here just last month. A new CO always shakes up a command to put his own brand on it. The troops never like it, but it usually settles into a mutual respect.”

  Hines regarded the damaged hooch with no visible sign of emotion.

  “You want a list of suspects, Major? You could start with every man on this base.”

  Grey stared at the ground as if looking at something far, far away. “Eight men who were stationed here went home yesterday in body bags.”

  “A platoon from Bravo company,” said Larson. “Ambushed. Heavy casualties.”

  “Wiped out by one of our own bombs,” said Hines. His eyes kept shifting back to the jungle tree line. “The VC find our dud shells, rig them up and use them against us.”

  “Let me guess,” said McCall. “Saigon promised replacements today but they’re not here.”

  Larson nodded. “The green machine. Efficient as hell, ain’t it? And until those new men get here, I’m way short of manpower. I’m hoping Charlie hasn’t figured that out yet.”

  “Issue me an M-l6,” said McCall. “You’ve got one replacement.”

  “Two, actually,” Tara volunteered.

  They ignored her.

  McCall didn’t miss the flash of anger that made Tara’s eyes turn a deeper shade of green.

  He went around to the entrance of the command center and glanced inside. Tactical maps were spread out upon folding tables. Ammo crates served as chairs. A clerk was busy at a typewriter. A radio man monitored mostly static from a small receiver.

  Grey said, “Colonel Emmett should never have ordered me and my men out on that patrol.”

  Larson told McCall, “The firebase is assigned two companies of light infantry. One supports the other. The line company conducts recon patrols around the base, and it was Bravo Company’s turn on the rotation schedule. The other company provides mortar and artillery support from here.”

  “The colonel should have never ordered my platoon into that area after dark,” said Grey. “I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears cherry. That ambush wasn’t my fault. Me and Sergeant Williams always brought our guys home. Right, Captain?

  Larson nodded. “Right, Lieutenant.”

  Hines said, not unkindly, “You need to relax, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir. You, uh, haven’t been right since, well, since it happened. Maybe you ought to lay down in your hooch, sir. I’ll have a medic check in with you.”

  A sideways glance told McCall that an impulse within Tara was trying to dissuade her from capturing on film, for posterity, Lieutenant Grey’s vulnerability and emotional unbalance; a poignant portrait of the ravages of war on a trained, competent man. She grimaced, lifted her camera and snapped the picture.

  Grey said, “The sergeant who died in the ambush, Sergeant Williams, he served way back in the Korean War and until two nights ago he was keeping alive a good bunch of guys who should have been back home drinking beer. Every man on the base respected him. The sarge was our teacher, our preacher, the one we looked up to. And I owed him a personal debt. That’s why I wish to God that I’d been one of the dead in that VC ambush, not him.”

  “Lieutenant,” said Larson, “you are not responsible for what happened.”

  McCall said, “What sort of personal debt?”

  “My dad served with Sergeant Williams in Korea,” said Grey. “He saved Dad’s life. Sarge gr
eased a Red Chinese who was about to run Dad through with a bayonet. They stayed in touch after the war. They were both lifers. I must have heard the story a hundred times growing up. I never got tired of it. Cancer got Dad last year. I was raised to be a soldier. I couldn’t believe my luck when I got assigned to Sergeant Williams. I was supposed to be the platoon leader, but we all knew who kept us alive.” Grey’s lower lip trembled.

  Tara stepped forward. She rested a hand gently on Grey’s shoulder.

  “Lieutenant, listen to your captain and to Sergeant Hines. There is a thing called survivor’s guilt. You must maintain. That is what you owe Sergeant Williams and your dad and yourself.”

  Grey’s lower lip stopped trembling.

  “Yes ma’am. You’re right.” He drew himself to his full height, his shoulders back. “I’m not doing anybody any good, pissing and whining, am I? I’ve got to regroup and be ready for whatever’s coming next.”

  Tara nodded with a smile. “1 couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Grey turned to Larson. “Captain, uh, I guess maybe I should try and get some rest.”

  “I think you’re right, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Grey added to Tara, “And thank you, ma’am.” He lowered his eyes from theirs and walked away.

  When Grey was out of earshot, Larson said, “There goes a fine soldier, wearing a hair shirt from hell.”

  “He’ll make it,” said Hines. “That kid’s got a lot to offer this man’s army, but he was on the razor’s edge of losing it. Miss Carpenter, I believe you helped steer that soldier back in the right direction.”

  Tara started to say something.

  McCall spoke before she could.

  “Yes, ma’am. That was a humane and noble gesture. But now I must ask you to allow me to proceed without distraction. You’re a non-participating observer, Miss Carpenter. Captain, I’d like to take a look as Sergeant Williams’ hooch.”

  “This way,” said Larson. He started them toward a line of hooches near a row of mortar placements. “Mind if I ask, Major, what are we looking for in Williams’ hooch?”

  Striding apace with them, Tara said, “The lieutenant said the men on the base looked up to Sergeant Williams like a hero.”

  Hines nodded. “That’s as good a word as any, ma’am, and that’s why everyone hated the colonel after Sergeant Williams died on a patrol that never should have been sent out.” A bleak smile creased his coffee latte features. “And that’s the connection. I get it. Lady, you’re a Sherlock Holmes.”

  McCall tried hard not to yield to his building irritation.

  He said, “She’s a civilian.” This wasn’t going to work, having Tara tagging along every step of the way. He would just lay it all out for Conglose when they got back to HQ. They had a war to win. He had a murder to solve. What the hell was Tara thinking? What the hell was she doing here? Cool it, he told himself. He said, “And I’ll thank you, Miss Carpenter, to just zip it and take your pictures, okay?”

  “Understood, General.”

  McCall sighed. “Sarcasm yet. I’ll be lucky to stay a major with you bird-dogging me.” He barely caught the man-to-man grin that passed between Larson and the first sergeant at this verbal sparring. Damn. The electricity between him and this sassy redhead was so obvious that anyone who witnessed it would catch on even if they didn’t know exactly what they were seeing. To change the subject, he nodded to the row of mortars near Williams’ hooch. “Not the quietest neighborhood.”

  “No such thing as a quiet neighborhood in this sector,” said Hines. “We’re surrounded by bogey land. It’s a free fire zone beyond that perimeter.”

  “The first change Colonel Emmett made when he took command,” said Larson, “was to send out patrols after dark. It was unnecessary. Too risky. Everyone except the colonel knew it. The mission for this firebase is recon. You can’t recon in the jungle at night.”

  Hines spat. “We have an outstanding record for targeting VC for the flyboys. We do our job. But doing our job wasn’t good enough for the colonel. He wanted a higher enemy body count so he could get himself a general’s star and he didn’t give a damn about sacrificing good men like Sergeant Williams for a promotion.”

  Tara lifted her camera and snapped a picture of Hines.

  They reached Williams’ hooch.

  McCall entered the hooch alone. Tara lowered her camera and positioned herself between Hines and Larson in the entrance. Their grouped presence in the doorway deepened the interior gloom. The hooch was of uniform furnishings: cot, foot locker, a makeshift desk. McCall knelt on one knee to conduct a thorough search of the foot locker.

  “Uh huh,” he said.

  He rose, letting the lid of the locker snap shut. He exited the hooch, leafing through a small bound-leather volume.

  Captain Larson craned his neck to try to make out the printing on the book.

  “What did you find, Major?”

  Hines guessed, “A Bible?”

  McCall shook his head, snapping the book shut. “Not even close.”

  Tara studied the book’s dimensions and appearance. “A diary.”

  “When men keep one, it’s called a journal.”

  Larson ran a broad palm across the bristle of his crew cut. “Why would Sergeant Williams keep a journal?”

  “Why the hell wouldn’t he?” growled Hines. “I’ll bet he had plenty of stories to tell, going back to Korea.”

  “Too bad he kept them to himself.” Larson extended his hand, palm up. “Mind if I take a look, Major? Maybe he wrote something that will help us.”

  Tara said, “You could make bet on that.”

  McCall slid the book into a pocket. “Sorry, Captain. First I’ll have a look for myself.”

  Tara studied him. “You think that diary—excuse me, journal—holds a clue to who fragged the colonel?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.” McCall patted the book in his pocket. “Something tells me this is going to make for an interesting read, and I want to get started.”

  Sergeant Hines said, “I’ll show you to the guest billets, for what they’re worth.” He glanced at his watch. “And it’s past chow time.”

  Tara let herself into one of the guest billets—not her own—without announcing her arrival.

  McCall sat at a makeshift desk, a slab of plywood resting across two empty oil drums. Remaining seated, he pivoted with incredible speed, a blur of movement, freezing with the .45 in straight-armed target acquisition, its muzzle inches away from the center of Tara’s forehead.

  She froze, lovely mouth agape, her green eyes wide, holding her breath in astonishment.

  McCall sighed mightily, flicked on the safety and returned the .45 to its shoulder holster.

  “Now there was a real temptation.” He returned to the material spread across the desk. “I thought we were going to avoid personal contact, Miss Carpenter.”

  She stood beside him. She rested a hand on his shoulder. Her touch had always had its intended affect on him. He felt that humanizing affirmation borne of the touch of woman, of grace and beauty so uncommon, practically unknown in the harshness of war except as memories nursed by those who fought. She glimpsed the paperwork he’d been poring over: three personnel files, a yellow pad full of his notations, and the slim leather volume, folded open with the spine up.

  She read aloud the names off the personnel files.

  “Captain Larson, Lieutenant Grey, Sergeant Hines. I’m glad I don’t have to guess which one of those three fragged the colonel.”

  McCall decided that he could either blow up or give up. This woman had a backbone of steel coupled with a tenacity that could wear down stone.

  “And what makes you think the killer is one of them or that I’m guessing? It’s called investigating. What the hell am I going to do with you?”

  An impish smile curved her lips, and with one graceful, impudent motion she was straddling his lap, her fingers entwined behind his neck, mischievous gr
een eyes glistening, her lips, inviting, only inches away.

  She whispered huskily in his ear, “I’ve got an idea what you could do about me.”

  “You’re a vexatious wench.”

  “Vexatious?”

  “Sometimes I wish you were more of a nag. That would be easier to deal with.”

  Realizing that he was serious, she lost some of her good humor. She withdrew from his lap.

  “So what about the journal? Was it interesting?”

  “What journal?”

  At that instant, someone outside yelled, “Incoming!”

  Then everything became drowned out by a startling, eerie whistling that increased in pitch and then was itself drowned out by a deafening explosion, an impacting blast that shook the hooch violently. Dust and red dirt powdered down upon them.

  McCall grabbed the M-16 he’d been issued and rushed outside.

  A night fog had fallen. A bursting flare overhead cast the base in surreal daylight. The first explosion had been a direct hit on the Huey that had brought them here, now nothing but an unrecognizable, flaming ruin. Everywhere on the base, soldiers were responding to the attack, some firing their M-l6s on the run, firing the weapons on full auto into the darkness beyond the perimeter. The artillery and the mortars and machine guns opened up, shredding the night with thunder and fury.

  A whistling round missed McCall by inches, chipping off a chunk of the hooch doorframe. He felt a trickle of blood from a flying splinter, razor-thin along his cheek.

  The next incoming mortar shell struck the main bunker. The Tactical Operations Command evaporated in a copper-red eruption of flame.

  Then Tara was with him.

  She said, “Damn but I wish they’d issued me a weapon. Don’t suppose I could borrow one of yours?”