Casca 14: The Phoenix Read Free Page A

bit concerned about Ho's occasional irrational behavior where prisoners were concerned. Not that he found any of Ho's actions reprehensible; it was only the degree of his passion that concerned Troung. Passion was not a good thing where business was concerned; it clouded the mind and judgment. Ho was fortunate that he, Troung, was at his side to provide a cooler head when the occasional moments of passion overcame his leader. He would be glad when they were back in their camp, even though it meant a night march from the village of Plei Tangale to the far banks of the Song Chi River.
     
    Casey watched the haze of blue smoke from the cooking fires rise over the Bihnar village. Dawn was still a couple of hours away and soon they would start to awaken. He wanted to be done and away before then. A thin-ribbed dog scratched itself with its right hind leg, thought about it for a moment then rose, stretched its back, and went to leave its scent on a nearby post used for the butchering of an occasional deer or pig. He sniffed the post before relieving the pressure in his bladder. The smell of old blood brought saliva to its jaws as it wondered when it would taste red meat again.
    Sliding along a drainage ditch, Casey moved, body low to the ground, taking advantage of all cover, staying in the shelter of the mist rising from the floor of the damp lands floating over him like the spirit of the dead in the predawn hours. The coolness of the mist contrasted with the heat of his own body's furnace that was generating the feelings of hate that stayed with him. In the village he hoped to find that which he sought and needed. He knew he was close, and the fact that there were sentries on duty was a good sign. Still, he hadn't been able to determine in which huts the Vietnamese were sleeping. It was too dark and too far to see. He would just have to go down and find Comrade Ho. Somewhere in one of the huts, if he was lucky, he'd find him and then kill him.
    Pausing, he lowered his stomach to the damp earth. A sentry walked his post, half-awake and bored from the long night, his lids thick with the heaviness that always came in the long hours before the sun rose. Casey waited, patient. Give the man time! The sentry turned his back and began to walk to the far edge of the village where the cooking fire was still smouldering, giving off pungent wisps of smoke to ride with the mist. Casey followed after him. Half crawling he closed on his target. A pariah dog smelled him and started to give a warning growl, then changed its mind. This was not something it wanted part of and the animal could smell the coming death. Placing its tail between its legs the dog arched its back in a sign of submission and turned away to hide under the floor of one of the longhouses.
    Rising to his feet, Casey kept to the dark shadows of the longhouses as he closed in on his prey. He needed the man's weapons. During the time he had been watching, the Viet sentry had made the same pattern twice. Soon he would come back from the east side of the village to face out to where a small grove of plantains were nearly ready for picking.
    Doan Le Quan was not very concerned about the presence of enemies this close to the border and guard duty was always boring. His AK-47 hung from its shoulder strap as he made what he thought was another endless round of the village perimeter. His thoughts were concentrated more on when his relief would come than on his guard duty, so he could at last lay down and close his eyes to ease the dry gritty feeling which made them so very very heavy. The dry crackle of a footstep behind him didn't alarm him. "You're early Tran." He completed his turn, expecting to see his relief. Instead, he saw the face of a man that should have been dead. His throat constricted as much from superstitious terror as from the scarred hand that grasped it, the fingers digging into the phrenic nerve as the thumb wrapped around the side of his esophagus. His death came so