Blood on the Risers

Chapter Twenty-eight The warm drop of sweat rolled from Mike’s brow, lightly burning the corner of his eye as it rolled past his cheek and etched its way slowly onto his earlobe. He dared not move to whisk the irritation away. The ominous dark figure had paused at the foot of his bunk. Through the folds of the dense mosquito net, Mike’s wide eyes searched desperately for a familiar feature. He lay quietly, stealing short, silent breaths of the hot evening air, cloaked heavily with the musky aroma of nervous, sweating men. He’d spent hours fighting the heat, slipping in and out of a shallow slumber, listening to the faint drone of angry mosquito wings, constantly flipping his wet pillow for brief moments of cool relief. The evening distractions had run together: Distant thunderclaps, sounding more like deadly howitzers with every crescendo. An endless vibrato of cargo planes, hurriedly lifting off the nearby airstrip, their fiery JATO-assist speeding their departure. Illumination flares popped like vintage bottles of champagne, spewing oscillating shivers of light through the screen apertures of the wooden barracks. He couldn’t remember whether he had slept or not. Nothing had changed. Except, that is, for the silent figure perched at the end of his bunk. It moved—slowly, deliberately, silently lifting a dark object above the round metal bed frame. I’m dreaming, he assumed, but it seems so real. Another flare burst high above the perimeter, fanning a million-candlelight glare over the flat checkerboard expanse between the base and Núi Cấu Hin and the other mountains surrounding Nha Trang, a mere mile away. Flickers of light danced through the lines of bunks, filtered by the flowing drapes of musty mosquito nets. He’d commented to someone earlier in the evening how the nets reminded him of flimsy cocoons, constructed specifically to incubate, languidly, the slabs of fresh meat flown in daily from the outside world. The phantom froze, blending in with the awkward images flashing through the barracks, dissipating, then rising in concert with the distant light of the swaying torch. Mike’s heart pounded a morbid cadence. He was gripped in fear by the ghoulish scene unfolding in front of him. He watched in silent distress as the barrel of the AK-47 slipped through the corner of the net, a silver-tipped bayonet parting the folds, unveiling a pair of catlike, ebony eyes. His jaw tightened, his breathing ceased, his whole being focused intently on the narrow black sapphires, glistening ominously in the last fading sparkle from the distant flare. He glared up toward his own weapon, uselessly hanging from the head rail of the top bunk, out of reach, magazine empty. He anticipated the loud flash, the deafening report that would signal an end to his young life. His heart pounded fervently, demanding his limp body to react. His motor senses ignored the clear commands, however, apathetically refusing to respond. He lay paralyzed, captivated by fear, tormented by terror, his body mocking his innate instincts for survival. O God, please don’t let it end like this, he pleaded. Not my first week here. Not in a transient bunk. Not in my underwear. His arms felt as though they weighed a ton. They refused to reach up and grab the barrel of the gun that was pointed right at his head. He wondered if his bunkmates were dead already, their throats having been slashed by a silent team of sappers while he lay fretting about sleep in the stifling Indochina night. He strained to scream, to warn them. Nothing. Fear had silenced his voice. But not his heart. It continued to pound, louder and louder, faster and faster, until— The terror shackles finally burst, catapulting him out of bed, through the maze of netting, and into the image of the apparition poised to strike. A deep, guttural howl followed, prompting several other nervous men to shout in alarm and scramble out of bed and through the bay doors to safety. The bunk bed crashed around him, pulled to the floor as he wrestled to free himself from the labyrinth of torn netting. “What the fuck’s going on over there?” a loud voice demanded to know. Mike struggled to stand but could only manage to reach a sitting position before the net held him back. His senses restored by his abrupt crash to the floor, he quickly realized that the whole episode had been conjured up in his sleep-deprived mind. “Jet lag is fuckin’ brutal,” he replied, feeling humiliated as he struggled to free himself from the tangled net. One by one, the men returned to their bunks, shaken but relieved that the commotion was only imagined. Most were admin or support troops, destined for rear-echelon jobs that would keep them out of harm’s way. Mike ripped through the final strand of netting and quietly cursed himself as he righted the bed. He tossed the tangled net on the top bunk and headed to the latrine. Turning on the cold faucet in the shower, he stepped under the cool flow of soothing water, drenching his new olive-drab boxers and T-shirt. Don’t think I can put up with that kind of shit every night, he surmised as he began to relax under the steady stream massaging his tense shoulders. He finally regained his senses, turned off the water, and stepped out the rear door of the barracks to allow the hot evening air to absorb the remaining moisture clinging to his body. He stood there quietly, his dreary eyes scanning the moonlight reflecting in the rice paddies that formed a natural perimeter around the western edges of the base. The distant flares silhouetted the nearby mountain peaks, secure sanctuaries for Charlie to keep an eye on what was going on at the base, he concluded. He started to walk down the dusty sidewalk along the perimeter fence, noting the lines of concertina wire and trip flares that crisscrossed out to the edge of the paddies. Ahead, he observed a figure, sitting atop a sandbagged bunker, a billow of chalky smoke lingering above him in the breathless night. He walked slowly, noting the dark image wore faded tiger fatigues, shirt open, trousers draped loosely over his unlaced jungle boots. Mike felt the man’s eyes on him, although his head was facing out toward the paddies, the remnants of a small cheroot dangled loosely from his lips. The man seemed to be casually flipping a shiny object through his fingers. As Mike drew closer, he recognized the familiar profile, and as he stepped in front of him, the man stopped flipping the object and clutched it tightly. “Allen? Sergeant Allen?” “Aaahhh, excuse me if I don’t get up, Lieutenant,” he said, obviously surprised when he realized who had interrupted him, and continuing to address Mike by his former rank. “A little late to be playing grab-ass in the barracks, don’cha think?” A warm sense of security enveloped the young officer. “Somebody just had a bad dream,” he replied, sheepishly staring down. “Roger that, sir,” Allen said, a soft resignation evident in his voice. “This whole country is a bad fuckin’ dream.” “Don’t know how anybody can sleep in this shit,” Mike said, looking back toward the silent barracks. “You just get in-country?” “Yeah, three days ago. Haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep yet,” Mike told him. “Just flew up from Biên Hòa today. Haven’t had time to track down any of the guys from the Tenth. Who all’s up here anyway?”