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  On Flaherty's back was his rucksack, a battered green pack loaded with water, ammunition, mines and food. The pack had gone with him on sixteen cross-border operations since he'd joined this specialized outfit. It was as much a part of him as the weapon in his hands.

  The next senior man, Staff Sergeant James Thomas, had been on fourteen of those trips, which allowed him to joke about Flaherty's fiancée with impunity. Thomas was the radioman and his ruck was larger than Flaherty's, holding the same essential supplies as well as the team radio and spare batteries. The ruck, large as it was, looked small when placed on Thomas's back. He was over six and a half feet tall and heavily muscled. His black skin was covered in sweat, even here at four thousand feet with the cool evening air swirling in. It was a running joke on Recon Team Kansas that Thomas would sweat even at the North Pole. In Thomas's hands his weapon, the M-203, combination M-16 rifle and 40 mm grenade launcher, looked like a toy.

  The third senior member of RT Kansas was Sergeant Eric Dane and both Flaherty and Thomas were damn glad to have him along. Dane was the team's weapon's man and carried an M-60 machine-gun, capable of spewing out over a thousand rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition per second. But it wasn't the firepower he carried that endeared Dane to his teammates' hearts; it was his ability to move stealthily on the ground in the point position and keep the rest of them from walking into ambushes. In three tours in Vietnam, Flaherty had never seen anyone as good. Already, Dane had walked them around four different ambushes, any one of which Flaherty knew would have been the end of RT Kansas.

  Dane was of average height and had thick black hair. He wore army-issue glasses, the thick plastic frames marring an otherwise handsome face. He was lean and well-muscled, able to handle the twenty-two pounds of machine-gun without trouble.

  Carrying the machine-gun, by conventional tactics, Dane wasn't supposed to be on point, but the firepower was outweighed by his uncanny ability. And Dane never complained, never felt it was someone else's turn to take the most dangerous place in the patrol. Since the second time 'over the fence' when he'd rotated into the position, he'd stayed there. One night when they were alone, Flaherty had talked to Dane about it, telling him they could continue rotating the dangerous position but Dane had said it was where he belonged and for that Flaherty was silently grateful. Dane was a quiet man who kept to himself, but the other two senior members of RT Kansas were as close to him as anyone had ever been.

  The fourth man, Specialist Four Tormey, was new. The others didn't even know his first name. He'd been assigned to the team two days ago and the intervening time had been spent on more important things than becoming asshole buddies, such as teaching Tormey their immediate action drills. Tormey also wasn't Special Forces and that was another line between him and the older men. Tormey was an indicator of things to come. Special Forces had lost too many men in the meatgrinder of Vietnam. The people factory at Fort Bragg was only turning out a limited number of trained replacements every year. 5th Group had begun picking up volunteers like Tormey from regular infantry units in-country to replace dead or rotating members.

  Tormey had seen combat but he'd never been on a mission over the fence. Tormey carried an AK-47, a weapon he must have acquired somewhere in his previous unit. Flaherty didn't mind Tormey carrying it as its report might confuse the bad guys with their own AK-47s. Tormey was only twenty-one and his eyes were darting about, searching for behavioral clues. The three older men knew how he felt, getting ready to go on his first cross-border mission, but they didn't say anything about it because they still felt that same way, no matter how many missions they had under their belt. More missions meant they were better at what they did, not less afraid.

  The four men strode through knee high grass toward the landing zone where their chopper was due. They were halfway when Dane suddenly whistled and held up a fist. Flaherty and Thomas froze in place, and, after a slight hesitation, Tormey did the same.

  Dane reached over his shoulder and quietly pulled a machete out of the sheath on the right side of his backpack. He edged forward, past Flaherty and Thomas, his feet moving smoothly through the grass.

  The blade flashed in the setting sun as Dane swung it. Then he reached down and pulled up the four-foot long body of a King Cobra snake. The head was cleanly severed.

  “Damn,” Thomas said, relaxing. “How the hell did you know it was there?”

  Dane just shrugged, wiping the blade on the grass, then sheathing it. “Just knew.” That had been Dane's answer about sensing the ambushes. He grinned at Flaherty and offered him the snake. “Want to take it home to Linda? Make a nice belt.”

  Flaherty took the body and flung it away. His stomach hurt. He'd have stepped on the thing if Dane hadn't stopped him. “I'm getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

  Dane cocked his head. “Chopper inbound.”

  “Let's go,” Flaherty ordered, even though he couldn't hear the helicopter.

  ***

  The terrain below was unlike any the men of RT Kansas had ever seen. It was much more rugged and emanated a sense of the primeval, of a land that didn't acknowledge time or man's preeminence in other parts of the globe. Jagged mountains thrust up from the thick green carpet of jungle, their peaks outlined against the setting sun. Rivers wound through the low ground, surrounded on either side by towering limestone cliffs or fertile riverbanks. There was little sign of mankind's intrusions below and one could well imagine the land having existed like this for millennium.

  The chopper was heading northwest, and each of the four men in the cargo bay knew they had crossed the “fence,” the border between Vietnam and Laos long ago.

  “Any idea where we're going?” Tormey yelled, straining to be heard above the sound of the blades overheard and the turbine engines just behind the firewall their backs were resting against.

  Flaherty kept his eyes oriented toward the ground, keeping track of their progress. Thomas appeared to be asleep, his head lolling on his large shoulders. Dane looked at Tormey and a half-smile creased his lips. “I don't know where we're going but I do know we're not in Kansas anymore.”

  It was an inside joke. Every recon team operating out of CCN, Combat Control North, MACV-SOG, Military Assistance Command Vietnam, Studies and Observation Group, was named after a state. The team leader before Flaherty had been from Kansas, and had so christened the team. Since RT Kansas had not lost a man since that name was assigned, the name stuck, everyone considering it to be good luck. Soldiers were a strangely superstitious lot; the green rag around Flaherty's throat had gone on every mission with him and he considered it his good luck talisman. Lately, though, he and Thomas had been considering Dane their good luck charm.

  Flaherty glanced at Dane who returned his troubled look. Tormey had asked a good question. None of them had ever been on a mission like this. They'd simply been told to gear up and get on board the chopper. No target information, no mission briefing, nothing other than their commander bidding them farewell at the helipad at their base in Vietnam and instructing them to take orders from whoever met them at the other end. And where could the other end be now that they were over the border?

  And there were no “little people,” the affectionate term the American Green Berets used for the Montagnard natives who made up the other half of RT Kansas, on board. Their commander had been no more able to explain why the orders from Saigon said Americans only, as he could explain anything else about this mission. Flaherty and the other men weren't happy about leaving half their team at the forward operating base. They'd never gone on a mission before without their indigenous personnel.

  The second indication of trouble had been the chopper as it came in to the landing zone at the CCN launch site. The aircraft wasn't army, that was for sure. Painted all black with no markings, Flaherty knew that it was part of Air America, the CIA's private airline. The pilots hadn't said a word to their cargo, simply taking off and heading northwest. The pilots' long hair flowing out from under their wildly painted helm
ets and their large mustaches indicated they were CIA or perhaps part of the Ravens, a group of Air Force officers secretly loaned to the Agency for the air war in Laos.

  Dane leaned close to Flaherty. “Long Tiem,” he yelled in Flaherty's ear.

  The team leader nodded in agreement at Dane's guess as to their immediate destination. He'd heard of the small town and airstrip in northern Laos where the Ravens were headquartered and the CIA was coordinating its secret war. RT Kansas had been in Laos before, but much closer to the border, checking out the Ho Chi Minh Trail and calling in air strikes. They'd never been this deep nor had any other CCN team to their knowledge. He wondered why the CIA would want an American Special Forces recon team. The Agency normally hired Nungs or other oriental mercenaries for any on-the-ground work this far in, putting one of their own paramilitary personnel in charge of the indigs.

  Change was in the air though, and maybe that was the reason for this strange mission. Flaherty and the other two senior men knew that the secret cross-border war into Cambodia was going to become above-board sooner or later. The word was that the NVA and VC sanctuaries in Cambodia were going to get hit, and hit hard by the US regular army and air force. Nixon was going to allow the military to cross the border and destroy the bases from which the NVA and Viet Cong had been launching their attacks all these years. This trip they assumed, might have something to do with that.

  “What's your feel?” Flaherty asked Dane. Next to them, Thomas's head moved ever so slightly, his ear closer to hear the answer, belying the impression that he was sleeping.

  “Not good.” Dane shook his head. “Not good.”

  A grimace crossed Thomas's face and Flaherty felt his stomach tighten. If Dane said it wasn't good, then it wasn't.

  The chopper cleared a large mountain and then swiftly descended. Flaherty could make out a landing strip next to a small town. There were numerous black painted OV-1, OV-2 and OV-10 spotter aircraft and various helicopters parked on the landing strip along with propeller driven fighter aircraft. Air America. Long Tiem as Dane had predicted.

  The chopper touched down and a man on the steel grating waved for them to get off. The man wore tiger stripe pants, a black t-shirt and dark sunglasses. A pistol was strapped to his waist and a knife to his right calf. He had long, shiny blond hair and looked like he belonged on a college football field rather than in the middle of a secret war.

  “This way!” he yelled, then turned his back and headed off. RT Kansas shouldered their packs and followed him into a building with walls of plywood and a corrugated tin roof.

  “My name's Castle,” the man said, sitting on a small field table while the team dropped its rucks and settled down into folding chairs. “I'll be leading this mission.”

  “And I'm Foreman,” a voice came from the shadows to the left front. An older man, somewhere in his late forties, stepped forward. The most distinguishing feature that caught everyone's attention was his hair. It was pure white and combed straight back in thick waves. His face was like a hatchet, with two steely eyes set on either side of the blade of his nose. “I'm in charge of this operation.”

  Flaherty introduced the team but Foreman didn't seem to care what their names were. He turned to the maps mounted on the wall behind him. “Your mission is to accompany Mister Castle on a recovery mission to this location.” A thin finger touched the map in northeast Cambodia, along the Mekong River. “You will take all orders from Mister Castle. Infiltration and exfiltration will be handled by air assets from this location. All communications will be to me.”

  Flaherty and the other men were still staring at the map. “That's Cambodia, sir,” Flaherty said.

  Foreman didn't answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out several peanuts and began cracking the shells, throwing the contents in his mouth as soon as he had one open. He dropped the empty shells to the floor.

  Castle cleared his throat. “I have all call signs and frequencies. It will be a simple mission. Straight in to a landing zone, move a couple of klicks to our objective and do the recovery, then a few more klicks to a pick up zone.”

  “What about air cover?” Flaherty asked.

  “None,” Foreman said, cracking another shell. “As you've noticed,” he said without a trace of sarcasm, “you are going into Cambodia. Although that theater of operations will be legalized before long, it isn't legal now.” Foreman shrugged. “Closer to the border, yes, we could bring in some fast-movers and claim they misread their maps, but you're going in somewhat deeper.”

  “What are we supposed to be recovering?” Dane asked. Flaherty was surprised as Dane rarely spoke or asked questions during mission briefings.

  “An SR-71 spy plane went down over Cambodia last week,” Foreman said. “Mister Castle's job is to go in and retrieve certain pieces of classified equipment from the wreckage. Castle's been fully briefed. You are simply to provide him security.”

  “How did the plane go down?” Flaherty asked.

  “You don't have a need to know that,” Foreman said.

  “What about the pilot and recon officer?” Thomas asked.

  “The crew is assumed to be dead,” Foreman answered.

  “Did they make any radio contact prior to going down?” Flaherty wanted to know.

  Foreman's answer was abrupt. “No.”

  “How did it go down?”

  “We don’t know,” Foreman said. “That’s why you’re going there. To get its black box.”

  “You say it went down last week. Why have we waited this long?” Flaherty asked.

  “Because that's the way it worked out,” Foreman said. His dead stare indicated he wanted no further questions.

  “How accurate is the plot of the wreckage?” Flaherty asked.

  “It's accurate,” Foreman said.

  “Who's the enemy?” Flaherty asked. “Do we fire up anyone we come across or do we run and hide? What are our rules of engagement?”

  Cambodia was a nightmare of warring parties with shifting alliances. There were the Khmer Rouge, the Royal Cambodian Army, and of course, the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong.

  “You won't make contact,” Foreman said.

  Flaherty stared at the CIA officer in surprise. “That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.” The team leader stood. “These men are my responsibility and I'm not about to send them out on a half-assed operation like this.”

  Foreman pointed at Flaherty. His voice was level and cold. “Sit down, sergeant. You will go wherever I want you to. Those are your orders and you will follow them. Clear?”

  “Not clear,” Flaherty said, forcing himself to calm down. “I report to CCN, MACV-SOG, not to the CIA.”

  Foreman reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He negligently threw it at Flaherty. “No, you report to me for this mission. It's been authorized at the highest levels.”

  Flaherty unfolded the orders and read. Then he refolded it and started to put it in his pocket.

  Foreman snapped his fingers. “Give it back.”

  “I'll keep this copy,” Flaherty said.

  Foreman's hand slid down to the pistol on his right hip. Dane was up, his pistol pointing at the CIA man's forehead.

  “Whoa!” Flaherty yelled, more shocked by Dane's action than Foreman's.

  “Tell your man to back off,” Foreman said, his voice under tight control.

  “Dane,” Flaherty said, his tone indicating what he wanted.

  Dane reluctantly holstered his pistol.

  Foreman tapped Flaherty in the chest where he had put the copy of the orders. “You are mine for the duration of this mission. There will be no more questions. Your chopper leaves in ten minutes. Get to the landing zone.”

  Castle had remained still throughout the confrontation. Now he pointed to the door. “Let's go.” The CIA man picked up his own rucksack and threw it over his shoulder.

  Flaherty jerked his thumb and the team walked out. Flaherty felt the straps of his pack cut into his shoulders a
s he got close to Dane. “What's with you?”

  “This is screwed,” Dane said. “Foreman's lying about something and Castle is scared.”

  “Hell, I'm scared,” Flaherty said.

  “Castle's more scared than just going on a deep mission over the fence,” Dane said.

  “Maybe he's a cherry,” Flaherty said.

  Dane just shook his head.

  Flaherty knew Foreman was full of crap but the part about Castle being scared was news.

  Dane stopped and pointed. Two Nung mercenaries, powerful looking Chinese men armed to the teeth, were watching them from the edge of the landing zone, their hands moving in certain gestures toward the recon team.

  “What's with them?” Flaherty asked.

  “Do you wonder why they had to get us when the CIA usually uses people like them?” Dane asked.

  “Yeah, I been thinking about it,” Flaherty said. “But I figure now it's cause of the SR-71. Maybe they don't want anyone to know they lost one and they're keeping this American only. That's why we had to leave our little people behind.”

  “I've never seen Nungs afraid of anything,” Dane said, “but those guys are scared. Those symbols are to ward off evil spirits.”

  “Oh, crap,” Flaherty muttered as they continued to the chopper. “Just what we need. Evil spirits.”

  “And they're not even going with us,” Dane noted.

  The refueled black Huey was waiting for them, its blades slowly turning. RT Kansas, along with Castle, got on board and the chopper immediately lifted, heading southwest.

  Flaherty looked at his map, noting the location where Foreman had indicated the plane had gone down. It was near the Mekong River, about a hundred klicks from where the river crossed from Laos into Cambodia. The map was mass of dark green and contour lines in the area. No sign of civilization.