LITMIR.BIZ

      Prologue

      “In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.”

      —José Narosky

      September 9, 1971

      Preacher lay on his cot, his hands folded behind his head, staring at the shadowed canvas roof overhead. Though it was well past midnight and he was exhausted from a day spent on patrol, sleep evaded him.

      From the far distance came the muffled rumble of bombs exploding. Closer was the not-so-muffled sound of snoring.

      He shot a frown at the cot next to his and considered giving it a swift kick and telling his bunkmate to turn over…but decided against it. Just because he couldn’t sleep didn’t mean Fast Eddie had to join in his misery.

      Fast Eddie. He snorted a laugh at the irony of the nickname. There was nothing fast about Eddie. He talked slow, walked slow. But the nickname assigned him during boot camp had stuck, the same as Preacher’s. Preacher’s real name was Vincent Donnelly, but it had been so long since he’d been called by his given name, he doubted he would respond if he were to hear it now.

      The tag wasn’t one he would’ve chosen for himself, but he’d take it any day of the week over “Coward”, which is what some of the guys called him behind his back. He didn’t like the name or what it signified. He wasn’t a coward. He just had a hard time wrapping his mind around killing another human being.

      Giving up on sleeping, he rolled from his cot and to his feet, hoping a walk might silence the chatter in his head. Once outside, he paused to look around. At the far end of the camp’s perimeter fencing he saw a shadowed form in the bunker and headed that way, thinking he’d shoot the breeze for a while with whoever was pulling guard duty. As he neared the bunker, he heard the metallic click of a safety being released and called quickly, “It’s me. Preacher.”

      He heard another click, indicating the safety was shoved back into place, and released a nervous breath.

      “Figured it was you, Preacher.”

      Recognizing the deep voice as that of Pops, their team leader, he crossed to the bunker and settled down alongside his friend.

      “Quiet night?” he asked.

      Pops nodded, his gaze on the tall grasses that spread from the western corner of their camp. “Heard something a while ago. Thought we might have some company, but haven’t seen or heard anything since.”

      “Could’ve been an animal. We spotted some wild dogs this afternoon on our way back to camp.”

      “Maybe.”

      Hearing the doubt in Pops’s voice, Preacher glanced his way. “You think somebody’s out there?”

      Pops lifted a shoulder but kept his gaze on the grass beyond the fence. “Safer to think there is than get caught unprepared.”

      Preached nodded gravely.

      They sat a long moment in silence before Pops slanted a look Preacher’s way. “Still having trouble sleeping?”

      Embarrassed by what some might consider a weakness, Preacher ducked his head. “Yeah. Can’t seem to stop the chattering in my head.”

      “Chattering?”

      “You know. Like two sides of my brain are carrying on a conversation.”

      “Have you tried telling them to shut up?”

      Chuckling, Preacher shook his head. “Haven’t tried that one yet.”

      “Do what I do,” Pops suggested. “When I lay down at night, I close my eyes and picture home, my wife curled up beside me in bed. Relaxes my mind, my soul.”

      “Wouldn’t work for me. When I think about home, it just adds more worries to the chatter already going on in my head. Things like is Karen managing okay without me? Has Vince cut his first tooth?”

      Pops shifted his rifle to his left hand and slung an arm around Preacher’s shoulders. “You worry too much, Preacher. You’ve got to learn to let some of that go. Have faith that your boy will survive cutting his first tooth the same as you and every other kid in the world has. And trust your wife to handle things while you’re gone. She’s capable isn’t she?”

      “You bet she is. Karen might look fragile, but she’s tough. And Vince…well, he’s pretty tough, too.” He glanced Pops’s way. “Did I tell you he’s started climbing out of his crib? Karen told me about it in her last letter.”

      Pops withdrew his arm. “Next thing you know, he’ll be driving a car.”

      Preacher held up a hand. “Please. Don’t be putting those kinds of images in my mind. I can find enough to worry about as it is.”

      Chuckling, Pops pushed to his feet and stretched. “I need to take a leak. Mind standing guard for me?”

      Preacher took the rifle Pops offered him. “Might as well. Can’t sleep, anyway.”

      After Pops left to relieve himself, Preacher settled the rifle over the edge of the bunker and began slowly sweeping his gaze along the shadowed sea of swaying grass before him, while keeping his ear tuned to pick up the slightest sound. He’d made one full sweep and started a second when he heard a muffled sound behind him. He leaped to his feet, bringing the rifle up into position, its butt braced against his shoulder. With the nose of the barrel pointed in the direction the noise had come, he waited, listening.

      After what seemed like an eternity, a twig snapped, the sound like a crack of thunder in the silence. Telling himself that it was probably just Pops returning, Preacher eased forward, moving stealthily in the direction the sound had come. He wanted badly to call out to Pops, verify that he was the one who had made the noise, but training and field experience had taught him the danger of revealing his position to a possible enemy.

      A cold sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip, ran in a narrow rivulet down his spine. He paused a moment to drag his arm across his face to clear the moisture from his eyes, then moved on. When he reached the latrine, he flattened his back against the bamboo fence that surrounded it and waited, listening, his rifle held tight against his chest. Ten seconds. Twenty. Sweat dripped from his face, soaked the back of his undershirt. Thirty. Forty.

      Keeping his movements slow and easy, he leaned to peer around the opening into the latrine. Ice filled his veins at the scene before him. Pops lay sprawled on the ground, still as death, while a Vietcong, dressed in the standard black pajamas the enemy wore, straddled him. The Vietcong lifted a hand high, and moonlight bounced off the blade of the knife he clutched.

Скачать книгу