Casca 14: The Phoenix Read Free Page B

fast that he never heard the cracking of his neck. Casey let the body slide softly to the earth to lie under a shifting blanket of low mist. Quickly he stripped the body of its weapons and ammo. He checked the chamber of the AK-47 to make certain there was a round in the spout. The harness, with the extra magazines for the Kalashnikov Assault Rifle, was too tight to fit over the width of his shoulders. He loosened the straps so he could tie it around his waist instead. The dead Charlie's knife and canteen were also appropriated.
    Casey felt a chill run over him: Turning quickly in a half crouch, the bore of the AK-47 at hip level, his eyes locked on those of the Bihnar chief squatting on the porch of his longhouse.
    The two men looked at each other for a long second. Moh Chen knew that he was less than a heartbeat away from death if he made the wrong move. He looked at the limp body of Doan Le Quan, gave a barely perceptible shrug of indifference, pointed to the body and then to a longhouse two buildings away. He held up his hand, showing two fingers, then slowly backed into the doorway of his hut, out of sight.
    Casey gave a sigh of relief. He didn't want to kill anyone except those involved with the ambush. Besides he had always had a liking for the small tough men of the mountains and had fought side by side with them several times. He knew what Moh meant by his shrug. He would not interfere and felt no compassion for the death of the Vietnamese Bo Doi . By his signs he'd told Casey where the other Viets were sleeping and how many. He felt a bit cheated that there were only two of them here. That meant he'd missed Ho and would have to go on with the hunt.
    Rifle at the ready in case he met the relief guard, he scurried across to the hut Moh Chen had pointed to, keeping to an angle where he couldn't be seen from the doorway. The longhouse, like all of them, was built about four to five feet off the earth, a single notched log serving as stairs to a small deck or porch. The walls were of woven palm fronds or thatch, as was the roof. The doorway was about half the size of a man and a single worn piece of a once red blanket hung over it, keeping out the night air. Not using the log steps, he swung his body up to lie prone on the deck. Listening for any sounds of movement from inside the hut he let his breathing ease back to normal. Through the sides, made of thin woven fronds, he could hear breathing: easy, natural, deep. The breath of those who slept with no guilt on the mind to disturb their slumber. Casey set the AK-47 down on the porch and pulled the bayonet from its sheath. The thin, slightly scratching sound of the blade being drawn seemed unnaturally loud. Staying on his belly, he slid in under the rag of a blanket.
    The interior of the hut was two shades darker than the outside. The smell of unwashed bodies mingled with the ever present odor of smoke from campfires that never went out. Lying on thatch pallets two feet apart were the sleeping forms of the VC soldiers. They slept fully dressed, only thin native red and black striped blankets covering them. Scanning the room, he noted where their weapons were lying, too close to their hands. Packs were set against the side of the hut near a couple of homemade crossbows. This was going to be almost too easy. He began to move closer to the nearest man. The weight of his body caused the floor of the hut to creak lightly. One of the Viets rolled over in his sleep at the sound. Casey froze....
    Nothing more. He moved again, inching his way closer to the side of the dreaming Charlie, his bayonet in his right hand. When he reached shoulder level with his target he rose to his knees and looked down at the smooth cheeked face. Not a bad looking young man. Probably no more than twenty. Mentally he sighed. Well he'll never see twenty-one . The young Bo Doi rested on his side, his head facing toward his comrade. Casey took a breath, held it for a moment, let it out slowly, and then in