Bamboo Terror Read online

  The blazing morning sun came up out of the ocean and streaked into Hazzard's room, focusing on his face that now lolled uncovered against the door. He squinted as it woke him and looked up at the annoying light coming through the window. It took several minutes for the sleep to clear from his brain and for him to figure out what it was that he sensed was wrong.

  The sun was streaming in through a large gash that had been ripped in the bamboo shutter. He shook his head. What did it mean? Then he saw it. Extending out from a hole torn in the mosquito netting was the shaft of a long native spear that had passed through the mattress and embedded itself in the wall below the cot.

  Hazzard pulled the spear from the bed and stood it in a corner of the room. Persistent devil, he thought. Well, it was about time to get busy doing something, and staying in the room was becoming a bit unhealthy. He dashed some cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. The hell with shaving. If the local girls did not like five o'clock shadow early in the morning, they could all go take a flying leap at the moon.

  Outside, in the large room of the quarters, he found Maurice and Sturmer finishing their breakfast. The Frenchman grunted a good morning, and Sturmer only nodded as he began to busy himself with cleaning his Luger.

  'It's still quiet around here,' thought Hazzard. 'Like a silent movie—lot's of action, but no dialogue.' He finished breakfast of hot soup, rice, and fruit, gulped down a luke warm cup of bitter coffee and rose to leave as Doctor Kelly came through the doorway from his room.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hazzard," beamed the doctor. "Have a good night's sleep?"

  Hazzard paused by the door and swung around to face the three of them.

  "Yep," he answered. "Slept just like a corpse."

  Their reactions were identical, each one looking at Hazzard with mixed expressions of surprise and wonder. And f . . . you, too, thought Hazzard as he walked out into the compound.

  A small boy came running up and answered the question that was in Hazzard's mind.

  "Misah Chang say come."

  The boy turned away, Hazzard following him through the village and into the jungle until they came to a large clearing where Chang was addressing in French a mangy-looking group of forty guerrillas.

  When he finished, he turned to Hazzard. "I have told them that you will be in charge of them. I also have told them that you are a great warrior of many battles, and a great leader of men."

  "What did you tell them that for?" said the surprised Hazzard.

  "You will have enough trouble with them as it is," said Chang. "I am only trying to make it easier for you. It is up to you now to prove that you can lead them."

  Hazzard looked at the men who were now his responsibility. They looked as bad, if not worse, as the others he had seen here, only this bunch seemed to lack any semblance of discipline. They stood in various positions, some leaning on rifles, and some squatting on the ground. Each one looked back at him with open, unashamed eyes, a few with amusement, a few with arrogance, but all without fear. Hazzard remembered what a South Korean army officer had once told him: "If you are to lead men into danger, you must gain their respect at the beginning—and as soon as possible. The secret is in knowing how to get the respect."

  Looking at this tough band of undisciplined guerrillas, Hazzard knew that there was only one language they would understand.

  "Do you have a training area for hand-to-hand combat?" he asked Chang.

  "Yes, we have a large pit of sand on the other side of the village," said Chang.

  "Good," said Hazzard as his eyes searched through the group of men and he mentally made his choice. "I think that's where we shall start our first training lesson."

  Chang had marched the men to the sand pit as Hazzard tried to memorize the commands that were given in a mixture of French and Vietnamese.

  The men were lined up around the pit as Hazzard stepped into the sand and walked across to stand in front of the biggest and surliest of the lot. He poked the big man in the chest and motioned him to step into the pit. The man grinned at his comrades and looked at Hazzard with a sneer on his lips as he walked into the center of the arena.

  "You savvy English?" asked Hazzard.

  "Huh?" came the man's half-hearted, grunted reply.

  Hazzard pointed to his mouth. "English," he repeated.

  "No speak," said the big man. Then encouraged by the wave of laughter that came from the men, he raised his voice and shouted it again, "No speak," and laughed himself.

  "No speak, eh?" said Hazzard. "Well, we'll see how much you're laughing five minutes from now."

  Taking the man's bayonet from its scabbard, Hazzard snapped it on his rifle and, stepping back, motioned for the man to come at him with the bayonet. At first the big guerrilla cocked his head, wondering what was expected of him, but as Hazzard continued the motions, the man finally began to understand and a big smile spread across his ugly face. Pointing the rifle at Hazzard, he began a slow, halfhearted charge, as though he were playing some sort of game and was reluctantly humoring the childish whims of the stupid foreigner.

  The big man lunged, flipped through the air, and landed on his back to stare up at the bare bayonet being held by Hazzard only inches from his throat.

  Hazzard motioned the man to get up and try it again. This time, with the embarrassment of the first humiliating defeat screaming for revenge, the big man came charging at Hazzard with murder in his eyes.

  The result was the same, but for one slight difference. Because of the speed with which he had attacked, the Oriental had hit the ground twice as hard. Once more Hazzard stood over him holding the rifle, the bayonet held agonizingly close to the man's throat.

  Hazzard gave him back the rifle and motioned the man to do it again. Two defeats in a row were too much for the haughty temper of the big guerrilla, who prided himself on being the strongest one of his group. He walked to the edge of the pit, handed the rifle to one of the men, and turned to face Hazzard with a dagger in his hand. The rifle was a new weapon to this uneducated Oriental, but he had been raised with a dagger and schooled since childhood in its gory uses. Now, watch the fear show in the eyes of this insolent foreigner.

  The foreigner was grinning and beckoning to him. This tall stranger was a fool. He would not kill him. A small slash across the face would mark him forever. This would be enough.

  Hazzard crouched and waited. The way the guerrilla advanced told him that the man was an expert with the knife, but maybe the big man was too sure of himself. Hazzard would know the answer in the next few seconds.

  The man lunged, bringing the knife upwards and across toward the belly. Hazzard sucked in his guts as the blade flashed by. The man continued his forward motion and brought the dagger up in a swinging arc at Hazzard's face. Reaching out, Hazzard grabbed the knife arm by the wrist, threw his back and hip swiftly into the man's middle, and as the guerrilla flipped up and over through the air, he deftly wrenched the knife out of the man's hand.

  The group of men broke into a loud roar. Hazzard reached down, hauled the big man to his feet and handed him back the knife. Then as Hazzard slapped him on the shoulder in approval, the dumfounded expression disappeared from the guerrilla's face and he began to laugh and pound Hazzard on the back.

  After that it was simple. The men would do anything Hazzard wanted them to do. He had hit at their basic primitive motivation; the survival of the fittest, and by downing the biggest brute among them, he had proven that he was the fittest. This came out to the natural conclusion that Hazzard was the undisputed leader.

  A month went quickly by, and Hazzard's only accomplishment had been to weld his forty rough charges into a well-trained and disciplined fighting unit—but the real problem; that of the mysterious spy, remained in its original state of stagnation.

  Hazzard had managed to leaf through every book and paper in the quarters. He had thoroughly searched the rooms of Sturmer, Maurice, and Doctor Kelly. Even the radio shack used by Chang for guerrilla activities had
not escaped a complete going over. He had found nothing.

  Every night, since first hearing his name mentioned by Hanoi Harry, he had listened to Radio Hanoi, but there had been no more notices for anyone at Tu-Hao-Tuc.

  Even the would-be killer had not tried again since the morning Hazzard had found the spear imbedded in his cot, and he had not mentioned anything to Chang, or to anyone else, about these two attempts on his life.

  To all outward appearances, everything at Tu-Hao-Tuc had returned to normal, but Hazzard instinctively knew that the spy had only relaxed his activities until such time as a new attempt at killing Hazzard would be assured of success, or until the time came to forward new information to the Reds in Hanoi.

  There was nothing more he could do now but wait for the spy to make a move, and so he occupied himself with the training program he had set up for his men. He might never find the spy, but he was sure of one thing—his men would be able to give a good account of themselves in battle, and he was proud of them. It had not been easy. The language barrier was insurmountable and Hazzard had to improvise a simple language of pantomime mixed with whistling and a few words he had managed to pick up to instruct the men in weapons usage, field tactics, hand-to-hand fighting, and the hundreds of other things that were necessary for a soldier to stay alive in combat.

  He had given them a rough schedule of rifle practice, forced jungle marches, bayonet drill, judo, obstacle courses, machine-gun firing, squad tactics, small arms maintenance, and rough and ready discipline. The men seemed to thrive on it, and in turn taught Hazzard what they knew about the jungle.

  It had taken only one month, and now, Hazzard found himself secretly wishing for a brush with the Reds. The ultimate test of the fighting man—actual combat.

  11 Captain Chen Shu Wen

  THE INTELLIGENCE center of the 4th Brigade, People's Volunteer Army at Hanoi was a smoothly run, efficient organization, and Wu Chin Lee wanted to keep it that way.

  Wu Chin Lee was a colonel in the Secret Police of the Chinese People's Army, but now he wore the uniform of the army of North Vietnam. It was this way with all the Chinese volunteers who had been ordered to serve in Vietnam. Colonel Wu was the commander of intelligence of the 4th Brigade, and his office also controlled the activities of communist agents throughout the Indochina-Malaya Peninsula as far south as Singapore. He was originally from North China, tall, thin, lean, with a leathery face composed of high cheekbones, a grim unsmiling mouth, and fierce, deep set, cruel eyes. His position was a powerful one. Even though the ordinary rank and file generals in the various arms of service of the People's Volunteer Army in Vietnam did not come under his jurisdiction, Colonel Wu's merest suggestion was always immediately acted upon, as though it were a direct order from Supreme Command in Peiping. For was it not so that the slightest unfavorable mention of one's name in Colonel Wu's reports brought the instantaneous disciplinary action of the People's Court down upon one's head; and this could mean demotion in rank, quick dismissal, prison, or sometimes even death by a People's firing squad.

  Colonel Wu knew his power, but he also knew the power of the people above him, and to antagonize them with mistakes or inefficiency was to tempt the gods of fate.

  Ever since he had taken over command of the intelligence center at Hanoi, he had been bothered by the continued existence of the guerrilla camp at Tu-Hao-Tuc. He had managed to plant an agent in the midst of these traitors, and because of the spy's excellent reports, they had successfully ambushed each guerrilla raid.

  A tremendous file had been built up on this one operation. He now had maps of the village, of the seacoast, and the surrounding jungle area, details of all defensive positions, complete lists of all food, ammunition, weapons, medical supplies, and a detailed roster of all personnel, including the stupid foreign devils who had been hired as mercenaries.

  Now, he sat at his desk looking angrily at the thick file before him. There had been no reports from his agent in over a month, and among the dispatches received daily from Peiping there was always one inquiring about the present situation at Tu-Hao-Tuc which always ended with a demand for an immediate reply.

  Colonel Wu pivoted his chair around and looked up at the large map that spread across the wall behind his desk. It was covered with various colored pins. He stared for a long time at the only red pin on the map. It stuck out prominently from the spot marked Tu-Hao-Tuc, but Colonel Wu felt that it was hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles.

  When he had received this assignment from Peiping, he had hoped it would lead to better things. The operation against the South Vietnamese should have gone smoothly and been over within a matter of months. Then the stupid Americans had entered the picture. They brought endless amounts of food, medical supplies, weapons, and ammunition, and gave them freely to the South Vietnamese government. They trained the soldiers in modern jungle tactics, and led them with hardened, well-trained Special Forces Troops. The activities of the Americans provided endless material for the communist propaganda ministry, but it failed to have the desired affect of stopping the Americans.

  As if this had not been bad enough, the ignorant peasants had been banded together in various localities by a few skilled organizers to form guerrilla bands behind the lines of the People's Volunteer Army. One by one these nests of subversion had been liquidated or neutralized. Now, there remained only one of major importance, and Colonel Wu was determined to eliminate it as quickly as possible, especially since he firmly believed that his agent had finally been compromised.

  He picked up one of the telephones on his desk and sent for Captain Chen Shu Wen. If one wanted something done thoroughly, it is always best to use the most capable man available, and Captain Chen had proved his reliability and resourcefulness many times during the conflict in Korea.

  Captain Chen had originally been in command of a small intelligence unit that was charged with smuggling code books and heroin into South Korea for the use of Red agents. Later, because of his ability with the English language, he had been given command of the Special Interrogation and Information Section for English Speaking Prisoners of War. It was a long and imposing title and boiled down to one thing, changing the political beliefs of English-speaking prisoners. This was later referred to as brainwashing among the capitalistic countries. He had been successful in over fifty cases, and more than one third of them had elected to stay in China when the fighting had ceased. These men were the infamous turncoats of the Korean War, and Chen was rightly proud of these accomplishments for which he had received his captaincy and the Order of Sun Yat Sen, First Class.

  Captain Chen also had the dubious honor, although long forgotten, of having personally interrogated a prisoner by the name of Michael Hazzard, who had been captured during the last two months of the war. These meetings with Hazzard were lost in the jumbled memory of hundreds of American and English faces that Captain Chen had seen in the many prisoner-of-war camps. He would never know that his own face was burned indelibly into the memory of the American, who had stood by the bed of a dying nineteen-year-old prisoner who had been put on a water diet by Chen for refusing to answer questions. An American who had sworn a terrible oath of revenge. It had been the only time in his life that Michael Hazzard had ever sworn to kill a man, and asked God to be his witness.

  Captain Chen snapped to attention before the squint-eyed gaze of Colonel Wu. He also wore the uniform of the North Vietnam Army, and proudly displayed over his left breast pocket was the red-and-yellow ribbon of the Order of Sun Yat Sen. Colonel Wu looked at the short fat form of Captain Chen, and the greasy, bloated face from which two puffy eyes appeared to be on the verge of being popped out by the surrounding layers of oily blubber. Chen's usual haughty and arrogant attitude had been left outside. He was now the essence of military dignity, a soldier reporting to his commanding officer, and of all the military commanders in the Southeast Asia district, Colonel Wu was the most feared—and therefore, the most respected.

  Colonel Wu did no
t return the salute. It was a custom that disgusted him. "Be seated, Captain Chen," he said. "I have an interesting problem which I am going to give you. I hope very much that you will be able to solve it within the next few weeks. In fact, I will be more specific, I would be pleased if the problem is solved in exactly two weeks."

  Captain Chen knew from experience that this was not a request, but an order. Then, as was the custom, he accepted the problem without first finding out what it was.

  "I find it a great honor to serve," said Chen. "I pledge my reputation, and that of my ancestors, that the problem will be solved before the end of two weeks."

  Here was another fool of a conformist, thought Colonel Wu. Good. Without them there would be no one to blame for the ever increasing mistakes that invariably occur in a communist-run state.

  "You are of course familiar with the band of terrorists that inhabit the village of Tu-Hao-Tuc," said the colonel, and he waited for the assenting nod from the captain before continuing. "Our agent there has not communicated with us in over one month. Because of this we must move quickly to wipe this blemish from our peaceful land."

  Captain Chen smiled. "I am happy to hear that I shall be given the honor of their destruction. I had previously asked to be allowed to lead a force against these traitors."

  "Previously it was not deemed necessary," said the colonel in a sharp voice. "With continuous reports from our agent, we were able to meet each of their clumsy raiding parties with our superior troops. This kept them in check, and allowed us to deploy our troops more effectively in other areas. Now, we must move quickly before they contemplate some foolish action that will be embarrassing to report to our Supreme Command in Peiping."

  "The agent has been captured?" asked Chen.

  "He has either been captured, or turned traitor," replied the colonel.

  "And if I should find this agent alive at Tu-Hao-Tuc . . .?"

  He is to be executed along with any other survivors."

  Captain Chen smiled and nodded his head in approval.