Free The Doomfarers of Coramonde by Brian Daley Page A

they’d
stopped in; the grass grew high and there were dense stands of rubber trees
nearby, abandoned to undergrowth. He forgot all about his salt tablet. But the
rendezvous wasn’t too far off, and he didn’t know from which direction the
other APC would come. Steel Probe ten would be Bronco Jackson and Gunfighter, Alpha-Seven, maybe the second-best track and crew in the 32d Armored
Calvary Regiment.
    Of course, Gil
MacDonald and his squadmates, known collectively as the Nine-Mob, knew past allquestion that no better track flattened turf than Lobo, their own
Alpha-Nine.
    Still keeping
watch as Woods killed the engine, he said conversationally, “News reports about
Operation Big Sur had me worried about you clowns.”
    “So,” answered
Pomorski from behind, “whip some current events to us. We been beatin’ the
boonies for a week; haven’t seen a Stars & Stripes, even.”
    Gil dug a late
copy of the American serviceman’s newspaper out of the pouch pocket of his
jungle fatigues. He opened and began to read it, glancing over the top of the
page to check out the landscape with nervous caution.
    Getting
shaky, he chided himself, letting the Shortimer Syndrome get to you.
    He read: “An
ancient tactic in the timeless business of war was employed this week by
commanders of the U.S. Army’s Second Field Forces as a part of the ongoing
effort to maintain the safety of the Saigon Capital Military District.
    “In simplest
terms, the maneuver was a well-coordinated trap, tempting bait with crushing
jaws poised around it. The bait in this case was from the 32d Armored Cavalry
Regiment.
    “Counterintelligence
sources permitted the compromise of information concerning a convoy route and
schedule. The convoy, to be made up of thin-skin cargo vehicles, rolled on
time, but was actually composed of the 32d’s durable 1st Squadron.
    “As hoped,
Charlie showed up to make his kill on easy pickings promised by the bogus
rumor, but received a rude shock upon springing his ambush. With lethal
precision, assembled APCs and tanks turned their firepower on the Communist
infantry, repelling them and killing many while close air strikes were called
in to F-4 Phantom fighter-bombers already in the air.
    “Airmobile troops
were flown in by helicopter immediately after the last strikes to support
mop-up operations. In all, over forty-three enemy dead were confirmed by body
count.
    “1st Squadron
Commander Colonel J. B. Woolmun—”
    Gil stopped
reading and looked up. “Hey, anybody want to hear a quote from Wooly?” The
mildest reply he received was to the effect that the colonel had Oedipal
tendencies.
    “What
journalism washout wrote that?” Pomorski wanted to know. “And how can a
timeless business have ancient tactics?”
    Gil folded the
paper and stared across the quiet countryside before him, gnawing his lower
lip, nerves still on edge. Then they got to him, and he thumbed the transmit
switch.
    “Steel Probe
six, Steel Probe six, this is Steel Probe one niner, Steel Probe one niner,
over.”
    He repeated the
call twice, drawing no response whatever, with the same results when he tried
to raise Bronco Jackson. Stuffing the newspaper back into his pocket, he
snapped, “Light it up, Al. Everybody look sharp, we’re haulin’ balls out of
here. I got the boss five-by on his last call and now I can’t raise him or the
boys on Gunfighter. I never asked the CO to authenticate his message
because I thought I recognized his voice, but it doesn’t sound like him to
stick us out here and wander out of radio contact.”
    They were all
alert now, suspicious as wild animals. Sure, they can tell something’s
wrong, just like me. You show up at a convoy point and there’re no kids or
mama-sans around or at night on the perimeter you hear the cans you’ve tied to
the hurricane wire start clanking. Or something like this happens. Ice on your
backbone and knots in your belly.
    Woods’ hands
were firm and quick on the laterals, the