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  They reached the summit just before dark. It was a narrow razorback ridge of solid limestone, just wide enough for a single person to step along carefully, balanced between sheer drops on both sides. Obviously, no one had bothered to recon it. There was no possible place for a helicopter to land, much less an artillery battery.

  Mellas, too, was crying with exhaustion and frustration when he radioed Fitch that there wasn’t room for the rest of the company on top. Fitch regrouped the company on a small saddle just below the final cliff, packing it into a space that would normally have been occupied by a platoon. The company dug in and spent the night there. The next morning they climbed the trail blazed by First Platoon, using the ropes that had been tied in place—just as tired, but more confident, knowing First Platoon held the summit.

  It took the entire day, using every piece of explosive the company had left, to blast a small niche for an LZ out of the solid rock edge of the massive sweeping cliff that plunged more than 2,000 feet into a river canyon on the north side of the mountain. They blew their final bars of C-4 just as darkness closed out any possibility of resupply.

  The next morning they were hacking away at the rock with their E-tools. At around midday the fog temporarily cleared and Fitch radioed to VCB. Thirty minutes later they all silently watched a CH-46 come chundering up the long valley they’d taken days to get through. The perch they’d blasted and scraped from the limestone was just large enough for the chopper to put down its rear wheels. The front two-thirds of the helicopter hovered dangerously in midair as the pilot fought to hold the machine long enough to unload its cargo. This maneuver drew murmurs of respect for the pilot’s skill. The tailgate came down, and a group of Marines ran out holding their helmets in the blast of air. No supplies came with them.

  Marines from Third Platoon helped the kid with the broken leg aboard. The tailgate closed and the helicopter simply fell off the cliff, picking up airspeed until it could fly. It curved away and faded into the mist.

  The Marines in the new group were full-fleshed and excited. Their camouflage helmet covers were conspicuously unripped, their jungle utilities bright green and brown. Hawke and Fitch walked up to them. They could see pickaxes, power saws, large new shovels, bundles of C-4, even a surveyor’s transit. A stocky first lieutenant, his silver bars gleaming on his collar, came over and shook hands. “Hi!” he said cheerily. “We’re the Pioneers from Golf Battery.”

  Hawke and Fitch stared at him. Finally, Hawke spoke. “Well, if you’re the pioneers, then we’re the fucking aborigines.”

  An hour later the same helicopter returned, an external load of C-rations, ammunition, and explosives swinging beneath it in a net that streamed out behind it on a cable. The helicopter released the net on the tiny LZ, then, as before, looped around the mountain to hover with its rear end almost touching the LZ and the rest of it hanging in space over the edge of the cliff. The tailgate flopped down to the ground and another group of replacements came tumbling out, wondering where to run. They were followed by Jancowitz, who was wearing crisp new camouflage utilities and a red silk scarf that smelled of perfume. He was holding a case of canned steaks.

  “I heard you guys might be hungry,” he said.

  Mellas could have kissed him but started stabbing at one of the cans with his K-bar instead.

  The next day the choppers delivered hundreds of pounds of explosives, a tiny bulldozer, and three Marine engineers. It took the engineers several days to correct what the Marines of Bravo Company had thought was the mistake of selecting Sky Cap for an artillery base. What they didn’t know was that long ago General Neitzel had figured out that he had the raw power to make the crooked places straight and would put his Marines where he wanted, not where nature would have allowed. The engineers simply blasted the top of the mountain down with plastic explosive and dynamite until it became wide enough to do the job.

  The normal backbreaking routine of providing security for a fire support base was resumed. The long hungry march, now dubbed the Trail of Tears Op, faded into the past. Days were filled with the nerve-racking tedium of patrols and nighttime listening posts, the stupefying work of laying barbed wire, hacking out fields of fire with K-bars, digging holes, improving positions, eating, shitting, drinking, pissing, nodding off, trying to stay awake. Still, it beat humping.

  Sometimes Mellas would find time to sit alone at the edge of the cliff. On days when the peak was out of the clouds, he would look into North Vietnam. Black clouds moved slowly before him at eye level. Far below, he could see the jungle-covered impression of a small river that surely joined the Ben Hai River to the north. Along the way it gathered the rainfall from Sky Cap and Tiger Tooth, the huge mountain that towered above them to the southeast.

  Because it took so long for security patrols to get off Sky Cap and back up, they didn’t have time to cover the distance needed to reach the river, but its possibilities excited Mellas. Its winding path had the fascination of a deadly snake. Days passed, and Mellas kept coming back to the cliff’s edge to stare at the river valley and daydream of glory and recognition. Then one evening he knew what he wanted to do.

  Fitch was bantering with Pallack and Relsnik in soft whispers when Mellas poked his head inside the dripping ponchos. It was too dark to see anyone.

  “I’ve got an idea, Jim,” he said.

  Fitch’s voice came out of the dark. “OK. What?”

  “You know the blue line just north of here that hits the Ben Hai?”

  “Yeah,” Fitch said uncertainly.

  “Nagoolian’s got to have all sorts of trails there. He had to in order to supply the attack on Con Thien last year. If they ever want to get Quang Tri, other than come right across the Z in tanks and get fucked up by Navy air and Army tanks and artillery, they’ve only got two alternatives: hold Mutter’s Ridge, which means resupply via the trails along the Ben Hai, or kick us out of Vandy and the Rock Pile, barrel-ass down Route 9, hit Cam Lo, and take Quang Tri from the west.”

  “Mellas,” Fitch asked patiently, “what do you want?”

  “I think we ought to recon that valley. It’s like a warehouse next to a freeway.”

  “The Ben Hai’s no fucking freeway, sir,” Relsnik said quietly.

  “But it’s got gook tollbooths every fucking klick,” Pallack chimed in, “and dey ain’t asking for no quarters either.”

  “I don’t plan on going down the Ben Hai,” Mellas said. He turned toward Fitch’s voice. “It provides a good screening action in case someone’s coming up the valley to hit us.”

  “Yeah, you’d be d’ fucking screen, holes all over you,” Pallack said.

  Fitch was silent.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to show battalion we’re taking some initiative,” Mellas added.

  After another long silence Fitch said, “OK. You got people crazy enough to go with you, be my guest. Take Daniels if he wants to go. How long you want to be out?”

  “I figure three days.”

  Mellas dug out his map, and Fitch switched on his flashlight. Faint red light illuminated the interior of the hooch. Mellas saw Pallack and Relsnik curled up next to their radios in their poncho liners.

  The next morning First Platoon had palace guard while squads from Second and Third platoons went out on security patrols. Security outposts disappeared into the jungle on the south side of the mountain or set up with binoculars on the cliff faces. Work parties were formed to lay more wire, burn garbage, and dig larger latrines. Mellas asked for volunteers. As he expected, almost everyone preferred the work parties. Also as expected, Vancouver was the first to say he’d go. He talked Daniels into coming. Mellas had to send the word out again for an M-79 man. Eventually Gambaccini showed up, saying he was coming only because Bass had mentioned to him that it was his turn to volunteer. Fredrickson felt honor-bound to go along, since he was still the only platoon corpsman.

  They all took four hours to sleep that afternoon. Then they blackened their hands and faces and tied down their equipment.

  In the darkness it took more than three hours to r
each the jungle floor, by rope most of the way. Vancouver took point with an M-16 rather than his M-60 so everybody’s ammunition would be compatible. He was followed by Mellas. Next came Daniels with the radio and Gambaccini with the grenade launcher. Fredrickson took up the rear, walking nearly backward, his M-16 pointing into the blackness behind them.

  They moved silently beneath towering trees that rustled in the dark above them. Eventually they reached the stream and made their way north alongside it. They used its sound both to guide them and to mask their movements.

  Mellas’s senses were keenly alive. A thrill surged up his spine. He felt wonderfully powerful and dangerous. Vancouver on point. Four combat-tried Marines. Daniels backed with a battery of howitzers. If the clouds broke, jets from Da Nang or possibly from carriers in the China Sea might show up to support them. They could even call in the Air Force’s Puff the Magic Dragon with its fiery streams of 40-millimeter shells from on high. He pictured his small team quietly stalking the enemy. A song from his college days rose in his memory, Ian and Sylvia, guitars driving, close harmony pushing the wildness, singing about outlaws: They were armed. All were armed. Three MacLean boys and that wild Alex Hare.

  In the darkness Mellas could sense the stream slowing, indicating that the land had begun to broaden as they left the high peaks behind them. The underbrush also grew thicker, reducing their own already slow pace. Above, he could just make out the dark silhouettes of the huge trees against the barely perceptible lighter color of the cloudy night sky.

  Suddenly Vancouver sank to one knee. Everyone quickly squatted, rifles outward in assigned sectors.

  “Trail,” Vancouver whispered.

  Mellas moved forward in a low crouch. His hand felt packed mud. “Take it,” he whispered.

  The trail headed eastward, ever lower, and now they moved more rapidly away from Sky Cap. The trail was what Mellas had wanted. He’d been proved right. But it occurred to him that they might not be the only ones out tonight. He tried to force the nagging fear from his mind and concentrate on moving silently. Don’t let water in the canteens slosh. Check the taped metal on the slings. Heel down, feel for anything that could make noise. Try to keep the breathing even. What would happen, he wondered, if they ran into a major unit? He’d stupidly assumed that only small units would be on the trails at night. But Vancouver would see the enemy first. They’d pull back in time. It would be easy to envelop the five of them, however. What if one of them was wounded?

  Mellas forced himself to think more positively. They’d find a perfect ambush spot. The gooks would come down the trail, talking, unaware. Daniels would give the word and the artillery would erupt. They’d uncover intelligence that would alter the whole division’s strategy or foil an attack on Quang Tri. A medal. A story in the newspaper back home. But what if they didn’t get set up in time and met the gooners head-on? What if some of them were wounded and the rest couldn’t run?

  Something ahead snapped, and Mellas’s heartbeat accelerated as the shadow of Vancouver sank quickly to the mud. Mellas went down on one knee, eyes straining. The wind moved softly through the jungle, bringing the smell of damp rot. It also rustled the trees, filling the air with a steady hiss. Trying to hear anything was maddening. The failure to hear could mean his death. The fear made his heart pound and his breathing shallow and more rapid, all in turn making it more difficult to hear. No one moved. Everyone was waiting for an order from Mellas.

  Mellas wanted to look at his map. If he could see the contour lines of Hill 1609 drawn on the map, it would help him feel that it and the company were still really there. In this darkness, it was a dream. There was only this ground, this smell, this small group of humans. He slowly reached for his map. Then he realized he’d have to turn on his flashlight to see it. To appear to be doing something, he slid his compass up before his nose and opened the case. The pale green glow of the needle’s tip swung drunkenly, then steadied, rocking slightly. Guilty anxiety struck him. What if the snap up ahead meant a group just like them, waiting to open up the minute there was more sound? He silently closed the compass case. What good did a fucking compass do if you couldn’t see where you were? He felt a hand tap his boot. “I don’t think it was nothing, Lieutenant,” Vancouver whispered.

  Mellas knew he’d have to either move forward or decide clearly that this was the enemy and pull back into a hasty defensive circle. He also knew he could not do the latter without looking foolish. Another part of him finally took command and he whispered, “Let’s go.”

  They rose to their feet. Carefully, they stepped forward. Heel down. Feel for something solid. Toe. Lift heel. Next foot. Heel down. Feel for loose sticks. Toe. Lift heel. They all moved the same way. Quietly. Slowly. The march of the reconnaissance team.

  This march was not in four-four time. There was no time. There was forever. Trees creaked unseen above them. Direction became meaningless. The compass needle pointed only to darkness.

  The flashes from the muzzle of Vancouver’s M-16 seared their eyes. Ghostly trees stood silhouetted, exposed, as if by flashbulbs. Grotesque shadows leaped into being and died as everything went black again. Green spots plagued their night vision, the explosions echoing and reechoing in their ears.

  Mellas had glimpsed the grimace of pain and fear on an NVA soldier’s face.

  They crawled backward, hearts pounding, panting with adrenaline. Mellas bumped into Daniels, who was pushing out to his assigned sector. He felt other boots touch his legs as Fredrickson and Gambaccini reached the circle. Mellas quickly whispered names. Everyone checked in OK.

  The radio was frantically keying the check-in signal. Daniels keyed back the OK signal. The radio stopped.

  “I only saw one, Vancouver,” Mellas whispered.

  “That’s all I saw.”

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gambaccini whispered.

  “Got to check the body for documents,” Mellas whispered grimly.

  “Oh, fuck, man.”

  They heard a moan.

  “Oh, shit, he’s alive,” Fredrickson whispered.

  “Now what do we do?” Gambaccini asked.

  “Pump some more rounds into him,” Daniels said.

  “It’ll give away our position,” Mellas whispered quickly. “Throw a Mike Twenty-Six.”

  “There can’t be just one of the fuckers out there,” Vancouver said. “He’s got to have friends behind him.”

  “I want the fucking documents. We need them for intelligence.”

  “Oh, shit, Lieutenant, fuck the fucking documents.”

  “Shut up, Gambaccini.”

  Mellas thought furiously. “Vancouver, go ahead and grease him with a grenade.” That way the enemy would not be able to locate them. “When I give the word, we all move toward the blue line.” He waited a moment. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go.”

  Vancouver rose to one knee and threw the grenade. An arc of brilliant fire erupted down the trail as they scrambled for the river.

  Again, they waited.

  “Did you get him?” Mellas whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  They waited.

  Fitch came up on the radio, asking them to break radio silence. Mellas told him the situation in terse, barely audible whispers. They continued to wait.

  “There’s got to be more of the fuckers. Let’s get out of here, Lieutenant.”

  “Goddamn it, Gambaccini, I want the documents.”

  Mellas, too, wanted to run, but he knew that bringing in solid information would make him look good. “I don’t think there’s any more of them,” Mellas whispered. No one answered, since no one had been addressed. It was clearly Mellas’s problem. The others would do as they were told. “Let’s go check him out,” Mellas finally said.

  They crawled forward through the rotting sticks and fungus of the jungle floor. When they reached the body, Vancouver quickly pulled at the AK-47 that was attached to it with a shoulder sling. The man moaned.

  “Fuck,” Daniels whispered. “He’s still alive.”

  Mellas sen
t Vancouver and Gambaccini to guard the approaches up and down the trail and went through the wounded soldier’s pockets. He scanned the contents of the man’s wallets with his red flashlight, trying to ignore the soldier’s eyes, which were rolling with fear, pinkish brown in the red light. He was no older than Daniels or Gambaccini.

  Fredrickson cut the kid’s uniform open, revealing three bullet holes in his abdomen. There were gaping exit wounds in his lower back. Shrapnel from the grenade had smashed through his left leg and shattered his shinbone. Fredrickson looked up at Mellas. “He won’t last but an hour or two. Less if we try to move him. Those are his guts coming out of the exit holes and I think that’s part of his pancreas. The charts never look the way it really is, so it’s hard to say.”

  Mellas wet his lips nervously. If only he could locate the soldier’s unit. They could bring the sky down on it.

  “We’re going to pull back and wait for him to move,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’ll pretend we’re leaving. I want to see which way he crawls for help.”

  Mellas stuffed the wallet into his pocket and cut off the kid’s shoulder patches with his K-bar. The kid’s eyes darted left and right with fear as Mellas worked around him with the large knife. Mellas thought about cutting off the belt buckle but hesitated, wanting to appear more professional. “OK. Let’s go,” he whispered. He switched off the red light. It was like heat being taken away.