Free Mad Dogs by James Grady Page B

jumpsuit . Zane knew it was only a matter of time before his chute ripped all the way and he crashed to the jungle floor. He finished the eighth letter of the key message and pushed TRANSMIT.
    rrrr-rip
    Easy! Don’t jerk. Ten more letters. Two words.
    Smell cigarette smoke. Zane flicked his eyes down as he one-handed keyed buttons. The Captain was smoking. Miss Black Pajamas watched with disdain.
    Letter nine—done. Letter ten—
    rrr-rip
    â€”done. Thumb’s on the TRANSMIT button…
    The chute tore with a loud rip as Zane pushed the TRANSMIT button. He dropped straight down until the chute cords caught and swung him like a pendulum smack into the tree. Inertia flung the FCT transponder from Zane’s sweat slick hand.
    Every inch of Zane hurt from being slammed into the tree. He burned in fire.
    Ignore that. Time. Need time. Did the messages go through?
    Miss Black Pajamas machinegunned the tangle of parachute cords above Zane’s head until they parted and he crashed/slid the last 20 feet to the jungle floor.
    But he had some mojo left: they cut off all his clothes, freed him from the most suffocating heat. They poured water over his head. Gave him one drink. Yelled questions. Slapped him. Gave him another drink. The clearing floated into focus. Three Hmongs, hands bound behind them. The oldest sent him a smile.
    The Captain leaned close, and in English said: “Why are you in our jungle?”
    Zane said: “Tourist.”
    Soldiers jerked him to his feet. Chopped a shovel into the dirt beside his bare toes.
    â€œDig a deep hole for your friends,” ordered the Captain.
    Already have, thought Zane.
    â€œOne question you will answer,” said the Captain as naked Zane shoveled jungle muck out of the pit that was now as deep as his knees and longer than he was tall. “Will you stay in this pit for the rest of forever?”
    Yes , he knew. But said nothing.
    Guerrilla-dressed Miss Black Pajamas had an oval face with butterfly lips. A woman had cut him down from Hell’s tree to put him in his grave. Zane froze as she used her machinegun muzzle to push his naked penis first to the left, then to the right. She withdrew her gun. Yawned.
    â€œDig,” said the Captain.
    When the pit was hip deep, they dragged over Jodrey’s body.
    â€œDo you want to join him?” asked the Captain.
    Then he put his pistol to the head of the nearest Hmong and blasted crimson gore on the emerald jungle.
    Urine rolled uncontrollably out of Zane’s virgin penis.
    â€œSo much for those who are useless,” said the Captain.
    â€œCan I bargain for their lives?” said Zane. Make time!
    Knew the Captain lied when he said yes. The Captain asked about the radio frequencies for Special Forces A-camps. Truth was, Zane didn’t know. He would have lied if he had. The truth was what he told the Captain. Who shot another Hmong.
    â€œNow you must dig deeper.”
    So he did.
    â€œOnly one left. Who do your counter-intelligence people suspect in Hue?”
    Know that don’t can’t tell them don’t say anything time buy—
    BANG!
    â€œNow there’s just you,” said the Captain standing by the heap of dead bodies.
    Now it’s all just drama, Zane believed as he dug. Honest, I’m too valuable to kill.
    Birds rocketed out of the trees.
    Because he knew, Zane had a heartbeat to dive in the grave.
    God’s fist hit the jungle floor. That impact bounced Zane in his hole. Bomb blasts tore apart trees and birds and monkeys and snakes and people and hurricaned a greenish-red mush. Threw logs over the ditch, a roof that absorbed a hail of skin-ripping debris. Only six bombs fell, one stick horded from an already planned run diverted to answer Zane’s second, two-word FCT message, but they were 1,000 pound bombs and one stick was enough to grant his plea:
    ARCLIGHT ME
    Arclight : ’Nam speak for a B-52 strike. Called in by a soldier on top of himself and