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  He reached out a searching hand, found Hazzard's arm, and grabbed his wrist in a firm grip. "Soon the war became close, and we could hear the artillery firing in the distance. The guards began to desert until there was no one left except the prisoners, the commanding officer, and myself."

  His voice dropped and he relaxed his grip on Hazzard's arm. "He shot himself in the head with his pistol. That night I left. I changed to civilian attire made my way to friends in the Bavarian Alps, and lost myself among the confusion of returning refugees and soldiers. Later, after the war was over, I learned that I was wanted as a criminal for war crimes. I changed my name and went to Africa. The Arab nations were very sympathetic to the German cause, and I found work and settled down to a peaceful life. But it was not as peaceful as I had hoped. Over the years, the scenes in that camp kept returning to haunt me. I had to find something to atone for what I had done. I became a wandering mercenary soldier. Then, one day, I was approached by Herr Chang, and he told me of the situation here. I felt that if I could come and help, I could somehow look my God in the face. Now I am happy. God has punished me far more greatly than man could have. It is so easy to die. To live is the challenge. I know now that if I do not despair, or curse God for this affliction, then I shall be able to live as a man, and die peacefully when the time comes."

  Sturmer stopped talking and folded his hands over his chest again. Hazzard sat for a long time looking at the bandaged face. What does a man say when he has looked into the secrets of another man's soul? He placed the cord and key in Sturmer's hand, patted him lightly on the shoulder and left. There are no words to say good-by in situations like this.

  16 The Enemy Comes

  CAPTAIN Chen was extremely happy over his victory in the battle with the raiders. Even though one of the enemy's boats had managed to slip out of the narrow bay and disappear in the darkness taking the foreign leader with it, he had captured eleven of them alive. Four of these were too badly wounded to attend to at the limited facilities of Thai-Binh, and deciding that they would never live through the rugged trip to Hanoi, Captain Chen ordered that they be humanely put to rest—by a firing squad. He also thought it would be a splendid psychological stroke to allow the other seven prisoners to watch the executions. It might make them more talkative when they were questioned.

  The wounded raiders were carried to the warehouse area where they were forced to stand while Chen's men strapped them to posts with telephone wire.

  The remaining seven prisoners were lined up along one side, each with his hands tied tightly behind his back, and strung together by telephone wire that had been looped from each one's wrists to the neck of the one behind.

  Captain Chen stood before them and gave them the little speech he always had ready for such occasions. They were told that they were about to witness the penalty of the People's Court that was invariably handed down to those who committed high treason.

  By experience, Captain Chen knew that if the executions were completed swiftly, they would lose their effect upon the seven survivors, and so he ordered the firing squad to shoot one man at a time.

  Purposefully, he dragged out the periods between each killing by casually walking to the corpse and examining it for a long time. He then ordered the dead body taken away, and, grabbing it by the feet, two soldiers would drag the corpse slowly past the seven prisoners.

  In his own demented mind, Captain Chen could not conceive that these actions could possibly have a reverse effect upon the prisoners. To him it was the easiest way to grease stubborn tongues into talkativeness. But to the seven Vietnamese, this fat, greasy little man who strutted before them, was more than an enemy of war. He was Chinese, an alien from the country that had brought these long years of suffering to the land they had sweated over so long to gain freedom and independence from French rule. He was a living symbol of all they hated, and at each volley of shots, their jaws closed tighter.

  After the executions, Captain Chen interrogated the prisoners. Each of them just stood and seemed to look through him with blank, unwavering, emotionless eyes. When the fifth prisoner had stood for five minutes before him like a deaf-mute, Captain Chen's frustration reached its limit.

  "Take him out and shoot him," he screamed.

  Again the prisoners were lined up to watch the killing of another comrade, and the fat little officer paced up and down before them, promising the same fate to all of them if they did not talk.

  After the body had been dragged before them, he walked up to the first prisoner in line. He asked one question.

  "How many men are there at Tu-Hao-Tuc?"

  The prisoner stared into space above the little officer's head.

  "Shoot him!" cried Chen.

  The prisoner was cut loose from the others, dragged to one of the posts and shot.

  One by one the prisoners were asked the same question, and one by one they were hauled away to meet their fate before the rides of the firing squad.

  As Chen stood before the last remaining prisoner, he leaned within an inch of the man's face and screamed the question.

  "How many men at Tu-Hao-Tuc?"

  The prisoner looked down into the pudgy eyes of the captain, and spit full in his face. Chen leaped back, cursing the prisoner in Chinese, and drawing his revolver, he shot the man three times in the face. The body collapsed forward at his feet, and Chen deliberately bent down and shot once more into the back of the head.

  Walking briskly back to the garrison commander's small office, he ordered one of the soldiers to clean his blood spattered boots, and while this was being done, he hurriedly conferred with his junior officers. They would leave immediately, traveling southward along the coastal road in an effort to recover the time that had been lost in repelling the raiders.

  The commander of the Thai-Binh garrison was relieved and happy to see the four companies depart, even though they had left him eleven bodies to bury. Having a man like Captain Chen in his area was highly demoralizing, not only to himself, but to his men as well. Now, he could settle down once more to his peaceful routine of guarding the warehouses, and taking forty per cent of the fishermen's catch as token payment for keeping peace in the village.

  Captain Chen kept his men moving quickly and steadily down the coast. They marched for two hours, then rested for fifteen minutes. At night they stopped only long enough to cook enough rice to last them through the next day. He knew he was pushing the men unmercifully, and he gloated in their suffering as they staggered along the dusty road under the blazing tropical sun. They would have enough time to rest while they were waiting for the reconnaissance patrol to return.

  Fifteen miles north of Tu-Hao-Tuc he turned his column west into the jungle. Here they made camp and set up a strong perimeter defense. Being this close to the guerrilla headquarters, there was the constant danger of a sudden surprise attack.

  Chen now decided that he himself would lead the reconnaissance patrol. He would be able to judge the area and defenses first hand, and thereby save valuable time in planning the strategy of his attack.

  He chose twelve men to go with him, four of them would be his own special troops, and they would carry the radio with them so he would constantly be in touch with Hanoi.

  They had been picking their way quietly southward through the jungle for eight hours when they came to a large and aged mahogany tree. After the last man had passed, the noises of the jungle that had hushed at the presence of the intruders, came slowly back to life. The branches of the tree stirred slightly as if with the wind, but there was no wind. Then a deeply tanned Vietnamese boy dropped to the ground and faded quickly away among the trees.

  Hazzard was watching his men being put through a set of rugged calisthenics by Big Stoop, who was now first sergeant of the group, when he noticed Chang hurrying along the jungle path toward him.

  "I have just received word that a patrol of thirteen North Vietnamese troops is headed in this direction," Chang told him. "They are less than twenty miles away. I do not
know why such a small group is in this area. Either they have lost their way, or more likely, they think a few troops can infiltrate and check our defenses. At either rate, they must be intercepted."

  Hazzard looked at him slyly, he knew that Chang had not come rushing out into the jungle to tell him this as idle conversation. "And who's going to do the intercepting?" he asked.

  "I thought maybe you would like to go," said Chang. "You have been wanting a bit of action, and this is something that should not take you more than four days to complete."

  "And give me a chance to see what my boys can do," said Hazzard as he looked toward where his men were now doing deep knee bends with their rifles held behind their necks.

  "No, I am afraid you cannot use your men. You will have to take others that have had long experience in this particular type of fighting," replied Chang. "I do not want them all killed off. I must have prisoners, and to do that you must take them by surprise. I will pick the men who will go. They will be the best."

  "All right," said Hazzard. "When do I leave?"

  "You will have to leave tomorrow morning. We will assemble at six o'clock in the clearing at the bayonet course." Chang began to wonder if asking Hazzard to go had been the right thing to do. "There is one more thing you must know. Although you will act as the leader, you must let the men handle the situation in their own way."

  "Just going along for the ride, eh?" grinned Hazzard. "Okay, at least it'll be something different. I don't seem to be doing much around here anyway."

  After Chang left, Hazzard dismissed the men and wandered aimlessly about the area. The subject of the mysterious spy was bothering him more than ever, especially since he had seen Sturmer in the hospital. He had checked on the movements of Kelly after the doctor had left the villa the night they had decided on the plans for Sturmer's raid, and he was convinced that the doctor could not have sent any messages from Tu-Hao-Tuc. This did not eliminate Kelly from the suspect list, but you just did not go around openly accusing people without solid concrete proof.

  He was sitting among the rocks that lay scattered about on the top of the high bluff overlooking the sea when he heard heavy footsteps in the loose shale behind him. The massive form of Ming Lee loomed into view from behind a boulder and lumbered toward him. Instinctively Hazzard glanced about for an escape route. He did not trust the simple mentality of the giant, and it would be suicide trying to fight off any mayhem that the gorilla-like Ming Lee might possibly be contemplating for some unknown reason.

  When he saw Hazzard, Ming Lee's stony face twitched into a weird grimace. Hazzard did not know for sure, but he thought that the giant was trying to smile. It was a gesture of friendliness that the big man was totally unfamiliar with, and as he came forward, he held out a piece of paper in his right hand. Hazzard took the paper and, unfolding it, saw that it was a note from Ling Ling Yung. He looked up again, but the giant was gone.

  The note was penned in finely shaped characters:

  Dear Mr. Hazzard,

  I wish to see you. Please come tonight at eight o'clock.

  Ming Lee will bring you through the guard posts.

  Ling Ling Yung

  Hazzard toyed with the idea of not going. Why become involved with this beautiful woman who was so desirable, yet so inaccessible. Then he folded the note away in his pocket. Stop kidding yourself Hazzard. He remembered something he had learned in Japanese language school about the ancient samurai: never refuse the offered dish. He smiled as he looked at his watch. Eight o'clock—he would be there.

  Ming Lee had met Hazzard on the path leading up the slope to the villa. He had followed the giant past the heavily armed guards and been shown into a room that he had never seen before. It had less furniture than the overstuffed room where they had held their conferences. There was a low table, a few chairs, and a luxuriously padded divan covered with soft pillows that was big enough to have passed for a king-sized bed.

  Hazzard had been left by himself, and now he sat on the divan, gazing absentmindedly around the room. He noticed that the round Chinese-style windows were fitted with frames of milky white paper that allowed light to filter into the room, but prevented anyone from either seeing in or out. On the inside of the only door was a heavy brass bolt. Hazzard decided that the room had been constructed to allow the utmost in privacy, and the thought made his flesh tingle into a spasm of short-lived goose pimples.

  The door opened and a boy brought in a tray with an ornate teapot, cups, and the remainder of the bottle of French cognac that had been opened the night before Sturmer had left on his ill-fated raid.

  After the boy had left, Hazzard did not know whether he was supposed to help himself or wait until Ling Ling made her appearance. He had just made up his mind that his constitution needed a little courage from the brandy when the door opened again and a radiant Ling Ling slipped into the room. She softly shut the door and leaned back against it.

  "Thank you very much for coming," she said in her throaty voice and came across the room to sit next to Hazzard. Without another word she poured two cups of tea and surprised Hazzard by lacing each one heavily with the cognac. She handed him a cup and they drank in silence. The hot tea and brandy settled warmly in his stomach, and Hazzard knew that Ling Ling was feeling the same sensation.

  As his head tilted back to drain the last of the aromatic tea, his eyes focused on the door, and the goose-pimple sensation returned. The brass bolt had been slipped into place. They were now locked in the room together. A locked room, a bottle of brandy, and a beautiful woman. Hazzard thought of the heated kiss and began to wonder what was expected of him now. He wanted this woman's respect, but he also had an overpowering desire for her body.

  She put her cup down, and she was so close to him that Hazzard could feel the soft caress of her breath on his cheek as she spoke.

  "Chang has told me that you are going into the jungle tomorrow." He nodded his head. "You must promise me that you will be careful." Her voice had taken on a different tone now, and Hazzard turned his head to look into her dark anxious eyes.

  It was the same as the last time, an impulse impossible to deny. His arms went around her, his lips found hers, and as they relaxed into each others embrace, they slumped sideways to the softness of the divan. The next time she spoke, her lips were close to his, her eyes searching and memorizing every detail of his face, and her perfume drifted intoxicatingly across the downy pillows.

  "Ted me, how many women have you kissed?"

  "I have kissed many before, but I have never kissed a woman like this," and he placed one hand in the small of her back and pulled her close. Their mouths met, and he forced hers open with his tongue. She stiffened momentarily, and then pressed her body up against his while her hands dug frantically at his back.

  She had never known such ecstasy before. He kissed her mouth, her eyes, her cheek. A tremor ran through her body, awakening the passion that had lain dormant ad these years as his lips found the softness of her neck and his tongue caressed her quivering throat.

  The room darkened into night and they surrendered slowly to their desires, each becoming bolder as they loosened catches and buttons that hindered their exploring hands. The clothes of convention lay unwanted by their sides as their bodies melted into one and the storm of passion reached its climax to gradually subside into the soft murmurs and caresses of rapturous contentment.

  17 A Taste of Blood

  WHEN Hazzard awoke the next morning, he lay staring at the monotony of the mosquito netting above his head. The memory of Ling Ling was like an impossible dream come true. He breathed in heavily and found that the scent of her perfume still lingered with him.

  It was five o'clock, and swinging his feet out from under the netting, he sat on the edge of the bed. If he never had another woman for the rest of his life, he would now be able to die a satisfied man.

  The sudden thought of dying snapped his brain back to the realities that confronted him. He was about to take off into the jungle to
search for a communist patrol. A jungle about which he knew almost nothing, and to depend upon jungle tactics about which he was equally ignorant. He tried to create a reason for having so readily agreed to go, and as he dressed, he amused himself with the thought that he subconsciously wanted to do his share by taking part in the sacrificing struggle that was going on around him daily. Actually, he knew the real reason, but hesitated to admit it even to himself. It was Sturmer. Seeing the man lying there, doomed to a life of darkness, and yet believing that he was better off now than before was something Hazzard wondered if he himself could do, if ever the circumstances were reversed, and it was he who lay there. Now it was becoming a personal matter. He would catch the spy eventually, this he seemed to sense without a doubt, but first—a taste of blood.

  He finished dressing and checked Sam over to make sure there were no rust spots forming anywhere on the well-oiled steel. Satisfied, he pushed the pistol into his waistband and stuffed a handfull of .357 magnum shells into his pocket.

  The gray streaks of dawn were just beginning to appear above the trees as he set the bush hat at a jaunty angle on his head, winked at himself in his mirror, and stepped out into the large room of the quarters. The others were still sleeping, but noisy sounds of early morning life came to him from the direction of the village—the chopping of wood, the barking of a dog, the banging of a metal pan, an occasional cry of a hungry baby. He shivered against the coolness of the early morning mist and dampness of his clothes. Pausing only long enough to select the ripest banana from a large bunch at the end of the long table, he walked out into the compound and turned toward the area where his patrol would be assembling.

  Chang was talking in French to the men who would make up the small expedition when Hazzard arrived. There were ten of them standing in a line. As soldiers, they appeared to be the best selection of misfits that Hazzard had ever seen. They stood listening to Chang, wearing a variety of items from uniforms to rags. Some bareheaded, some with filthy wraps of cloth that imitated poor attempts at winding turbans, and two of them, for some unexplained reason, wore the dark berets of the Special Forces. The weapons they carried were as varied as the clothing. British Enfields, German Mausers, American Garands, one or two communist rifles of Russian origin, and one rusted weapon that had once belonged to the Japanese Imperial Army. A few of them had pistols and grenades, and all carried lethal, wicked-looking, razor sharp knives hanging from their belts.