WIREMAN Read Free Page A

sounds. Where was Nick? Would he use the .45?
    Daley braced himself for anything. Gunfire. Capture. Quick painful death from behind. He felt his bowels loosen and tensed his buttocks. A sweet sensation of relief was followed by the realization that he had wet himself. Shame suffused him, but couldn't overcome the fear. He kept perfectly still, not breathing.
    An odd gurgling sound came from the direction of the Cong. Bushes rustled, followed by a thin, throaty rattle, then silence.
    Suddenly Daley was running without knowing why or what he would do when he burst through the matted vines that separated him from what he feared on the other side. He flailed through waist-high bushes, tearing away the branches that barred his path. His foot caught beneath a body on the ground and he went down with a grunt. He rolled off the corpse, jumped to his feet, and heard Nick whisper close to his ear, "I told you to stay!"
    Daley jerked his head, looking around for more Vietnamese. "Where are they?" he asked. "Jesus, Nick, I thought..."
    "Shhh!" Nick put a finger to Daley's lips. They both turned in unison at the approaching footsteps.
    Suddenly Nick pushed Daley behind a clump of broad slick leaves. Daley squatted, his gaze riveted momentarily on the dead man's eyes that stared sightlessly up to the treetops. Daley's attention went back to his brother, who stood flush against a tree. In the shadows it looked as if something was suspended from his right hand. A rope? A piece of string? What the hell does he have? Where was the .45? Daley wondered.
    A short, skeletal Viet Cong slipped into the bare spot where the dead man lay. He stepped past the tree where Nick waited. As Daley's eyes rounded with terror, Nick moved behind the soldier, wrapped his hands around the man's throat, and tightened the eighteen-inch wire of a garrote.
    The Vietnamese dropped his rifle and grabbed at his throat, the fingers clawing at the strangling wire that was cutting off his wind. Nick jerked the garrote more fiercely and the man's feet left the ground, his full weight against Nick's chest. Nick held him, pulling the wire tighter and tighter. The wire sank deeper into the tender flesh as blood began to gush from the wound. The gurgling sounded again.
    Nick heaved backward with all his might, and while Daley watched in both horror and fascination, the man's head was severed from his struggling body, blood spurting after the head in a high, wide arc.
    Daley turned and retched. He heard the head hit the ground and roll. Then there was a heavier crash as the body dropped to earth, blood still gouting from the neck.
    "Let's go," Nick said softly. He touched Daley's shoulder with a hand that dripped warm blood. "There's one more. He took off. He'll bring the whole goddamn North Vietnamese army down on us."
    Daley could not vomit. Nothing would come up. They had been eating powdered eggs and C-ration Spam for days. It sat in his rolling stomach like a malignant tumor, but it would not come up. He had killed his share of the enemy. He had seen men killed. Blood and torn flesh were typical scenes in war. But decapitation was too gruesome. It was one atrocity he had not witnessed in Vietnam.
    Nick was striking off through the jungle. He seemed to know instinctively where the other Vietnamese had gone. Daley rushed to catch his brother. Someone had told him…maybe it was the battle-weary sergeant…fear was the healthiest emotion a soldier could feel. Fear caused you to fight longer, and more fiercely. But Daley had pissed himself and he had tried to vomit up his guts. What kind of a real soldier was he? And what kind was Nick?
    They were going deeper into the forest. Nick slogged ahead, the garrote swinging from his hand like a yo-yo while Daley followed. He could see the entrance of a cave outlined in the darkness. He could not tell if it was a cave that nature had created or if it was mad-made--bored into the hillside by the Cong. As they neared the opening Daley