The Howling Valley

But instead of a roar, there echoed in the cave nothing more than a sharp, metallic ‘click’. His rifle had malfunctioned, and this brought Scotty’s reflexes back into service.

Instinctively, he shoved Thanh behind him and tried to raise his M-16. Charlie was quicker than Scotty, though: rather than cycle the action of his jammed rifle, he loosed a deafening cry, ducked down and launched himself forward. While he was easily six inches shorter than Scotty, the man was surprisingly strong, and he had leverage on his side. He struck Scotty square in the gut, knocking the wind out of him before Scotty could get a shot off.

Charlie took down Scotty, Scotty (inadvertently) took down Thanh, and they all tumbled back several feet onto the stone floor of the cave. But, instead of landing on level ground, it sloped sharply downwards, and none of them could resist the inertia as they tumbled together. In the ensuing darkness and chaos, none of them saw the sudden drop-off coming, but they surely knew of it after the cave floor disappeared from beneath them, and they were falling, all three of them yelling and gasping for a solid three seconds until they were suddenly engulfed in warm, rushing water.

Scotty managed to make his way to the surface, where he began to try to fight the current, the force frequently throwing him against unseen rocks as he was carried toward an unknown destination. He frantically felt around for something to grab onto, something to slow his progress, but it was to no avail: the underground river was too swift and too powerful for him to get a solid grip on anything that he managed to touch.

He didn’t know how long he’d been traveling, but he knew that he was tiring-and that was dangerous. He couldn’t afford to slip under; he’d be a dead man if he did. Instead, he relaxed and let the water carry him where it would, taking him further down into the guts of the mountain. He had no idea where Thanh or the Viet Cong soldier were at this point; they could have both drowned, for all he knew.

Then, there was light. It was ahead of him, a small spot that was growing larger by the second. As he approached it, the water slapping and tossing him around like a rag doll, he realized that he was heading toward a fucking waterfall.

Oh, you motherfucking, cock-knocking son of a bi-

He didn’t even have time to finish the thought. He was thrown over the precipice, and found himself staring down a twenty-foot drop into a green body of water. He did manage to land feet-first, though, slicing into the jade-colored pool below like a scalpel into flesh. As he plunged into its’ depths, his clothes, his equipment, and his rifle began to weigh him down, but he managed to force himself to the surface, where he noticed that he was only around thirty feet from the shore. He began to kick and paddle toward land, his limbs burning in protest. Just keep swimming, Scotty, you can do it, man, the Corps trained you to survive, you’ve made it through tougher shit than this...

He’d made it! He welcomed the cool, gritty texture of dirt and rock against his hands and body as he pulled himself ashore, gasping and soaked to the bone. Free of the pool’s clutches, he rolled over onto his back and stared into the deep grey clouds, the rain spattering against every inch of his body. Exhaustion overtook him then, and he gave himself to it willingly, his last sight consisting solely of the angry grey sky that so often dominated this cruel and accursed land.

*****

“Mister McKinley, wa-“

The voice faded back into obscurity. What? What now? Fuck, could no one just leave him-

“SCOTT!”

A sharp pain in his face brought him around, the darkness of slumber dissipating. Someone had not only woken him, but had fucking slapped him to boot! Someone was gonna pay for that shit, fuck this-

“Please wake up! Don’t be dead!”

“I-fuckin’ goddamn it, STOP!” He barked the last word in his statement as he lashed out, causing Nguyen Thanh to fall back in surprise. Her eyes were wide, her face pallid.

“It’s me, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t know what else to do!”

“S’okay,” he grumbled, sitting up and running his hands over his face, “You all right, Miss N? How long was I out?”

“Just Thanh, please,” she said, “and I’m all right, yes. I don’t know exactly how long you were unconscious...maybe five minutes? I came over the fall and swam ashore on the opposite side. I was considering diving in to look for you when I saw you laying here.”

“Okay,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet, “Well, thanks for checking on me, I’m glad you’re all right. My head hurts like hell; might be a mild concussion, but hopefully not. So where the fuck are we?”

Thanh stood to face him, the water making the white tank top she wore underneath her flak jacket cling to her body like a second skin. Even with the jacket obscuring a goodly portion of her torso, he could still get a sense of the sensuous curves beneath it, and man, were they something to behold...

He shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it. The motion rattled his helmet, whereupon he reached up and undid the clasp that had (somehow) managed to keep the steel hull attached to his head throughout his wild ride. He removed it entirely and dropped to the ground, taking took his first real look around the area since he’d arrived.

Even with the rain coming down, the place was striking. The waterfall that had deposited them into the pool poured from a sheer cliff face that stretched over a hundred feet above their heads, where it melded into the side of the mountain that they’d been on the other side of just a while ago. The pool itself had to be over sixty feet wide and was emerald green in hue, bordered by shores of deep grey stone and black sediment. It branched off into a few separate rivers: one that flowed west, and one that flowed south, each gurgling and rolling into the jungle to parts unknown, uncaring and unconcerned about the plight of the newcomers.

The pool was bordered on the south side, where they were standing, by a vast bamboo patch. Large, thick stalks sprang from the soil, rising to form a dense canopy that peaked over twenty feet above them. Outside of this large thicket was a similar botanical pattern they’d come to expect form this part of the world: colossal trees, broad-leafed plants, thick grasses and beautiful flowering plants that seemed to glow like Christmas lights against the backdrop of green. It seemed untouched, pristine, and completely serene; totally detached from the hellish reality of the world they’d just left.

“Mr. McKinley.” A hand pulled lightly at his uniform sleeve.

“Huh?”

“Look!” A harder tug followed this exclamation, and he broke from soaking in this new frontier in order to follow her pointing hand. That hand directed him to a span of shoreline to their left, and he immediately spotted what had her so concerned.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, inaudible over the sound of the rain.

The figure clad in black Viet Cong dress floated in the shallow water, face up and unmoving. Whether he was unconscious or dead, Scotty could not say.

“Do you think he’s alive?” As if she’d been reading his mind.

“I don’t know,” he said, “and I don’t particularly care. He tried to kill me, after all, and he would have either done the same to you, or taken you prisoner.”

“We should make sure either way,” she said earnestly, “because, if he is alive and he comes around, he may try to track us and make good on that threat.”

Scotty couldn’t argue with her logic. Thanh may have been merely a journalist with no soldiering experience, but that wasn’t to say that she was dim-witted or that she didn’t catch on quickly when it came to how shit worked out here. If she could stay hidden and alive during a VC ambush, she might be sharp enough to help get him back to his unit in one piece.

“Stay behind me,” he said, “I’ll check him over. If anything happens, run.”

She looked at him nervously and nodded. Scotty looked around and found his M-16 where he’d been pulled ashore, and picked it up. Brushing the dirt off of the pistol grip and receiver, he checked the chamber-still loaded. Shouldering the weapon, he moved quickly and quietly around the pool’s edge, never taking his sights off of the man’s form. He was now scraping lightly against the dirt of the shore, but he still hadn’t moved. Nevertheless, Scotty played it safe, his finger resting on the trigger.

They were now only a few feet from Charlie, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open just slightly. Scotty stopped, as did Thanh, his rifle's muzzle still pointed squarely at the torso of his unconscious target. He looked the man over, taking in his meager outfit: black short-sleeved shirt and matching pants, a worn shoulder sling with pouches that likely held spare ammunition, a battered steel canteen, and a pair of ratty old boots that could certainly use re-soling. His rifle was nowhere to be seen.

“Thanh,” he whispered, “take this and keep me covered. He wakes up and tries anything, shoot him.”

“I-but, I’m not-all right,” she whispered back. He handed her his rifle, briefly took a moment to position it properly against her shoulder, and turned back to the unwanted third member of their party. He quietly unclasped his pistol holster, drew his 1911 and disengaged the safety. Holding it ready in his right hand, he ducked down by the man’s side and gently placed a finger on his neck. There was a pulse, but it was faint. So he’d survived after all...that’s just great, he thought, now what?

He stood and took a step back, sidearm still trained on the unconscious enemy soldier. He looked around, and his eyes settled on the bamboo grove they’d just come from. He glanced back at Thanh and whispered, “Keep him covered. He moves, shoot him; I’ll be back.” She nodded and mouthed “hurry!”

The rain spattering against his helmet, he jogged back to the bamboo thicket and looked for the thinnest piece he could find. He quickly spotted a young stalk only an inch in diameter, unsheathed his combat knife, and after some considerable effort, hacked it off around three inches from the ground. He hurried back to the duo, a six-foot length of fairly soft bamboo in hand.

“What will you do with that?”

“You’ll see,” he muttered.

Starting at the cut end of the stalk, he began to shave away a strip of the bamboo shaft’s exterior. Once he’d cut off approximately four feet worth of material, he pulled the blade out and then severed the piece. He stowed his knife and began to bend and tug on the strip of bamboo. It was flexible enough, and it did not snap; it was certainly as tough as it needed to be, and it would do the job sufficiently.

Holding the strip in his mouth, Thanh still keeping the M-16 trained on the VC soldier, Scotty gently slipped his hands under the unconscious man’s shoulders and slowly began to pull him out of the water. His heartbeat went wild, expecting the man to whip around in his arms, for the fight to begin all over again. But he remained limp and still as Scotty gently lay him onto the soil of the shore. Carefully, he turned the man over onto his stomach.

Thanh began to whisper, “Mr. McKinley, what-“

He hissed at her. “Shh!” He pulled the man’s hands behind his back. Holding them together with one of his own, he took the bamboo strip in the other and slipped it under the prisoner’s wrists. He looped it around them three times and then tied a crude but solid knot; one that would not be easily escaped. The only ways he’d get out of it were if it were either undone or severed entirely. The guy wasn’t going anywhere, at least for the time being.

Scotty quickly stood and took his rifle back from Thanh. He nodded at her and said, “Thanks, Thanh.”

“You are welcome, Mr. McKinley.”

“Just Scotty, thanks. Mr. McKinley is my father.”

She stared at him, bemused, before breaking out into soft laughter. It was a sweet, almost musical sound that calmed him just slightly. He smiled and laughed a little himself, the stress of their current predicament lessening ever so slightly.

“Scotty!” Thanh gasped, looking back at their prone captive. He turned to look at the man immediately, who was beginning to stir, his legs and torso shifting. When he tried to move his arms and found that he couldn’t, he began to thrash and fight against his bonds. He turned his head and saw his two captors, then ceased struggling entirely.

His eyes, wide as saucers, then narrowed to slits as he opened his mouth and began to holler and shout, resuming his struggle. Scotty thought fast, looking around and seeing a small tree to his left. He looked back at Charlie-who was still shouting what were certain to be highly colorful insults against him, Thanh and everyone that they both held dear-and stalked over to him. Charlie’s shouting reached a fever pitch as Scotty reached down and pulled him up by the scruff of his worn shirt. He dragged his captive over to the tree with seemingly little effort and threw him against its' trunk.

The man cried out in pain and surprise, and followed up with a yelp as Scotty grabbed him by the shirt and twisted the unfortunate soul around to face him. There was a dull metallic ringing as Scotty drew his combat knife from its' sheath again; he clutched the front of Charlie's shirt in his left fist and rested the tip of the considerable large and extremely sharp length of steel against the man's cheek. The struggling and yelling died out, the knife's cold presence against Charlie’s skin informing him as to exactly what was at stake. His eyes were wide and brimming with terror, his breathing quick and ragged as his glance alternated between Scotty's face and his pig-sticker.

Scotty, for his part, had had enough. He needed to put the fear of God into this son of a bitch here and now. No games, no bullshit; Charlie needed to know who was boss. And if he refused to learn, well...

"Thanh," he said quietly, only just audible over the sound of the rain, "you ever do any translating?"

"Formally? No, but I can manage." She said from behind. Without glancing back, his gaze never leaving Charlie's, he spoke again.

"Ask him what his name is."

She spoke in Vietnamese to the man sitting against the tree. He looked between her and Scotty, his mind likely racing. His chest rising and falling rapidly, he swallowed and looked at Scotty's knife again, still resting menacingly on his face.

"You heard me, Charlie. Name!"

He looked back at Scotty for a moment and stammered out a brief sentence.

"He claims that his name is Vinh," Thanh said, "and he begs you not to kill him."

"Tell him that I'll consider it if he behaves himself." She translated; Vinh glanced at the knife, then back into his captor's eyes, and finally nodded in agreement.

"Ask him if he's familiar with this area, if he recognizes any of this." She spoke to Vinh again, and after she finished he spoke hurriedly back to her.

"He claims that he has never been here, and that no one he knows has either. He assumes that we are somewhere close to the Cambodian border, if not past it already."

"Shit. Well, ask him-" He stopped, his eyes having traveled to Vinh's waist, where he noticed a worn black holster he hadn't seen beforehand. His hand flashed out and grabbed it as Vinh gasped in surprise. Scotty moved the knife to Vinh's neck as he lifted the holster's flap and pulled out a pistol. He realized immediately, however, that it was not just a pistol-it was an American-made, American military-issue 1911, the very same make and model that Scotty carried on his own hip in his own holster. He stood up, sheathing his knife as he looked over the weapon, pulling back the slide just slightly to find a round in the chamber. It was far dirtier than his own 1911 (he’d obviously not been familiar with its’ maintenance routine), but it was still unmistakably a U.S. soldier’s piece. And this fucker had been carrying it, probably using it against Scotty's own countrymen.

His lips pursed, a storm even deadlier than the one passing overhead brewing in his eyes as he looked back at Vinh. Scotty growled, "ask him where he got this."

A nervous tremor now detectable in her voice, Thanh repeated the question in Vietnamese. Vinh looked confused and terrified, but did not answer. Scotty, unsatisfied with this response (or the lack thereof), suddenly raised the 1911, cocked the hammer, and pointed it at the prisoner's head.

"Tell him that if he doesn't answer my question, he's a dead man. I am not fuckin' around; I will end him here and now if he refuses."

She spoke rapidly to the bound man. Vinh recoiled against the tree and began to talk quickly, his voice shaking audibly as he did so.

"He...he claims that he took it off of a dead GI months ago," Thanh said, "and that he has not fired it at anyone since acquiring it...or so he says. He does not understand why you are so angry, that it is merely a weapon."

Scotty leaned down and wrapped his left hand around Vinh's throat, slamming his head into the tree trunk, while the other jammed the barrel of the gun into his temple.

"Listen, you motherfucker," he said, his voice saturated with rage and his expression a rictus of fury, "I'm gonna pull the mag out of this thing. If I find a single round's been fired, the next one goes between your fuckin' eyes. Got that?"

Thanh translated, and Vinh immediately began to babble at Scotty, who released the terrified insurgent and stood up again. He pressed the release button on the pistol, whereupon the magazine dropped out of the grip and into Scotty's empty left hand. He held it up and looked at the witness holes on its’ side. Brass shone dully through each of them-it was full. He glanced down at Vinh, still feeling as hateful and unsympathetic as ever, but also ever so slightly placated. This man was his enemy; nothing had fundamentally changed in that regard. But, from the look of things, he was telling the truth. Unless...

Scotty swooped down again and started to search Vinh’s pockets and ammo pouches. The man started babbling and shouting again, Scotty ignoring him every step of the way. Eventually, he found what he was looking for: a pair of spare 1911 magazines-both full to capacity. He stood up again, stared at the magazines, as if pondering something important. Vinh had gone silent again, his eyes never leaving the gun in Scotty’s hand. Scotty glanced down at his captive and spoke again.

“Thanh, we need to get our bearings. I’m going to find a tree tall enough so that I can climb up and get a look at the surrounding area. I need you to keep an eye on our guest here while I do that.”

He glanced back at the photojournalist, who nodded. “I would ask that you leave the rifle with me,” she said.

“I have a better idea.”

He walked over to her and placed Vinh’s 1911 into her right hand, then slipped the extra magazines into the left pocket of her soaked flak jacket.

“Safety is off, and you’ve got a round in the chamber. Seven rounds per mag, don’t waste ‘em. Aim for the center of mass if you have to use it.”

“I...thank you.” She said quietly.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, “potentially having to shoot someone isn’t an opportunity you should be grateful for.” She stared after him as he walked away to search for a vantage point, his words echoing through her mind.

The rain continued to pour with no end in sight.

*****

“A valley?”

“Yeah. The other side is probably a few miles away. The mountains are impassable in both directions from what I can tell, at least without a ton of mountaineering equipment. I saw the north end in the distance as well; doesn’t appear to be a pass there either. I’m not sure what’s to the south, my binoculars either aren’t powerful enough or it’s just too far away.”

“So we make our way south?”

“That appears to be our only real option.”