“We could radio down.”
“Send it by hand,” Tyreen said.
“I see,” Saville said. “If the old man knew about this in time, he’d scrub you, David.”
“That’s right,” Tyreen murmured. “Get going — find somebody to deliver the message. I’ll go in and size up the crew.”
Saville slowly drew himself up straight. He executed a slow salute. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, without expression.
Chapter Eight
0145 Hours
It was near two o’clock in the morning. The hangar was big and empty: a few workbenches, a broken-down lathe, a wall hung with repair tools, a stack of assorted hoses, drums of metal parts and oil, grease on the floor. George McKuen sat on the corner of a sawdusty bench, one leg hanging free and swinging slowly, the other foot touching the floor, a cigarette held idly between two fingers. Warrant Officer Shannon sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up and his hands clasped around it. Sergeant Nguyen Khang crouched on his haunches. Sergeant J. D. Hooker stood stiffly near the hangar door. Sergeant Nhu Van Sun was behind McKuen, curiously toying with a sophisticated electric wrench. Sergeant Sun was large for a Vietnamese, perhaps five foot eight, a few inches taller than Khang, and two dozen pounds heavier.
All of them looked at the newcomer.
Tyreen said, “I’m Colonel Tyreen. I’ll be running this show. Captain Saville explained to you what we’re after. You’ve had the opportunity to back off, and you’re still here, so I’m assuming you’ve all volunteered. It’s too late to quit now.”
McKuen gave him a restless grin.
Shannon showed no expression whatever; his lean young face was lowered, and he was considering the progress of an ant crossing the floor in front of his feet.
J. D. Hooker stared at Tyreen with instinctive dislike across the gulf separating every officer from every career enlisted man:
Sergeant Sun looked troubled. He fiddled with the tool in his fists.
Sergeant Khang smiled faintly; he seemed to find something secretly amusing.
Theodore Saville entered the hangar dripping. He nodded his big round face and took a post near Hooker at the door. Hooker had turned his head to stare at the two Vietnamese sergeants. He looked back at Tyreen as if he were about to speak, but his lips never moved, and presently he looked away.
McKuen, redheaded and rawboned, showed Tyreen a friendly grin and snapped a wooden match alight with his thumbnail to light his enormous cigar.
Tyreen said, “You’ll have to remember one thing. The United States will repudiate us if we’re caught up there. You understand that, all of you? If we get caught, we’re all civilians. They’ll execute us for spying, anyway, but don’t even give them your rank and serial number.”
No one spoke until Lieutenant McKuen got to his feet with one eye squinted against the smoke of his black cigar. “One thing before we start, Colonel.”
“Right.”
“About that airplane. Could you be givin’ us a few hours to patch it up? It’s in bad shape. Terrible bad.”
“No time. You’ll be flying south into Da Nang with that typhoon right on your tail, Lieutenant. Anyhow, I doubt you’d find any usable parts around here.”
McKuen said morosely, “I wonder if she’s insured. I looked at the bloody number plate — I’d like you all to know this crate was manufactured in nineteen thirty-seven. It’s two years older than I am. Colonel, this bloody aeroplane’s an antique.”
“That’s all right, Lieutenant,” Tyreen said mildly. “So am I.” He swept the others with a glance. “About oh-five-thirty hours we’ll be making a HALO-SCUBA jump into the Gulf of Tonkin just below Lak Chau. Corporal Luther Smith will be there to guide us inland. If he doesn’t show up, it’s your job, Sergeant Khang. We’ve got two jobs. First priority is an American captain being held for interrogation in Chutrang. After we get him and his exec out, we’ll have a try at the railroad bridge on the Sang Chu.”
McKuen arched an eyebrow and said, “Assignment for you, Mister Shannon. Capture Hanoi for us to keep them busy, while we search the rest of North Vietnam for the missing captain.”
“Okay,” said Shannon, “but you’ll have to wait till after I take a crap.”
McKuen said to Tyreen, “What’s the jump altitude going to be, Colonel?”
“Twelve hundred feet.”
McKuen pursed his lips. “If we overshoot the reefs they’ll be able to pick you up with a blotter.”
“We’ll just have to hope there’s enough weather turbulence to confuse their coastal radar.”
“Maybe they won’t pick up the chutes on radar,” McKuen said, “but they’ll sure as hell pick out the plane clear as day.”
“That’s why it’s unmarked,” Tyreen told him.
McKuen said, “There’s somebody I want to see in Honolulu right away.”
“Who?” asked Mister Shannon.
“Me,” McKuen replied.
Tyreen said, “Captain Saville has your chart coordinates for the drop zone. Get your engines warmed up, Lieutenant.” He nodded at McKuen. “I’m sorry we can’t do better for a ship. The old bird will have to do — and we’ll just have to hope the engines don’t fall off. Any other questions?”
Sergeant Hooker drew his heels together. “What about the Red security system up there, sir?”
“Tight. Plenty of patrols. There’s a ten o’clock curfew, and they’re likely to shoot anything that moves after curfew.”
“I’m due back in the States in two weeks,” said Hooker. “I’m real short, Colonel. What’s our chances — on the level?”
“Maybe one in ten,” Tyreen said, and held Hooker’s angry eyes.
McKuen was on his way out of the hangar. Tyreen said, “I haven’t got time to fool with toughs and heroes on this job. Given a choice we’ll run, not fight. Avoid a firefight whenever possible.”
It was all he had to say. He surveyed them bleakly. At the door, George McKuen grinned. “Anybody got a stick of gum? I may find a place for it.” He went out. Tyreen looked around slowly. Big Saville, cleaning his inky fingernails with a stubby pocketknife. Shannon frowning and J. D. Hooker frowning, each in his way — Shannon young, puzzled, trying to be as cocky as McKuen; Hooker tough, tougher than a man should have to be, with a streak of viciousness across his broad, rubbery face. Young Sergeant Sun rubbed the knuckles of his fist into his palm. He was a heavy-shouldered shadow under the hangar wall, his face half-invisible but for the shine of his little button eyes. Sergeant Khang watched Tyreen with almost a leer, somehow furtively amused.
Sour lines pulled at Tyreen’s mouth. He turned and spoke privately to Theodore Saville:
“McKuen will take a few minutes to go through his checklist. Let’s go over this.”
“How much have you got mapped out?”
“Depends on how far we get before we run into snags,” Tyreen said. “How about our gear?”
“Enough to weigh down a platoon. Weapons, food, radio stuff — the usual warehouse full of crap. I hope these kids have got strong backs. Parachutes and underwater breathing gear. I blackmailed half a dozen miniature high-pressure oxygen tanks out of a Navy supply officer. That cuts down on weight, but not a hell of a lot. But the tanks are only good for about fifteen minutes.”
“It’ll have to be enough,” Tyreen said. “After takeoff, check the men out with the scuba gear.”
Saville grunted affirmatively. “And one other item.”
“Demolitions.”
“At least you don’t act senile yet,” Saville said amiably. He began to look pleased, like a child when he has mastered a problem in arithmetic. “What can you get that’s small enough for one man to carry, but powerful enough to blow up a big steel bridge?”