Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 32

'Everything's OK back there, Scar,' Mellas said. 'One Oley with a broken leg.' Mellas had automatically shifted into radio code.

'Fitch stopped us,' Goodwin said. 'I think the little f.u.c.kers dee-deed.'

It was over.

Mellas kept jogging along parallel to the company's line. Everyone lay tensely on the ground, M-16s and machine guns pointed ahead. As he reached the left end of the line, he started pa.s.sing his old platoon. They smiled at him. He ran past. Chadwick was on his back, blood covering his chest. He gave Mellas a thumbs-up and grinned, knowing he was on his way home. Mellas ran past him. He came upon Doc Fredrickson, who was working on a new kid Mellas had never even met. Mellas kept running. He reached Fitch, who was on the radio.

'They pulled out. Over. No, I can't tell which way, Stevens, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. We can't see s.h.i.t in this stuff. Over. To the north. I understand that. It would be suicide chasing them in this s.h.i.t. Over. They're not running, running, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, they're G.o.dd.a.m.n it, they're retreating retreating. They'll be laying on the ground and we'll be standing. They'll chew us up.'

There was a pause. Mellas heard another voice come on the radio but couldn't understand what it was saying. Then Fitch said, 'My mission priority is to get that team out safely and our wounded medevaced. We can't chase them, sir, if we have to carry bodies with us. Over. Aye, aye, sir. Bravo Six out.' He turned to Daniels. 'You got the f.u.c.king fire mission going yet?' Daniels was talking on the hook and just nodded. 'We got to circle them up, Mellas,' Fitch said. 'The recon team has five Oleys. That's out of six and the other one is Coors. I'm sending Scar to pick them up. We'll lift them out of the zone. Big John Six is going bug f.u.c.k. How's it look down there?'

'OK. I didn't see any Coors. A couple of bad Oleys.'

Fitch grunted, relieved.

Mellas set the company in around the LZ and soon had everyone digging holes. Goodwin took two squads and reached the reconnaissance team in ten minutes. It took them twenty minutes to make it back to the zone, struggling under the weight of the dead body and one kid who was shot through both knees. The rest of the team managed to walk out under their own power. The leader, a big lieutenant, had grenade fragments in his left leg. He came up to Fitch and Mellas.

'Thanks,' he said. 'I thought I'd kissed my a.s.s good-bye.'

'It's OK,' Fitch said. 'What the f.u.c.k happened?'

'It was my fault.' The big man let out a long quivering sigh. He started shaking, the pressure off.

'Want a smoke?'

The lieutenant shook his head. 'Up there.' He pointed to Matterhorn, its base looming above the valley, the top hidden by clouds. 'I spotted some movement two nights ago. I thought I could work in closer to see what it was.'

'Tubing! Tubing! Incoming!' The cry resounded throughout the circle. People scrambled for cover.

'Oh, f.u.c.k,' Fitch said. The three of them lay flat on the ground, none having had time to dig a hole.

Six explosions, almost simultaneous, rocked the area just outside the perimeter.

'They're up there, all right,' the lieutenant said. 'I saw two machine guns. They're dug in on that hill to the right. There's a burned-out helicopter on it. With that many heavy machine guns my guess is we may have a company up there. I wanted to check out the other hill, but-'

'Incoming!' someone shouted.

Mellas was digging furiously. Six more explosions walked across the interior of the company perimeter. The NVA gunners had the range. There was no doubt in his mind that there was a company. No smaller unit would hump the mortar ammo.

'Get the f.u.c.king fire mission going, Daniels!' Fitch shouted. 'They've got our f.u.c.king number.' Fitch immediately switched to the two circling gunships and directed them to find the mortars if they could.

'We can't get a mission going if the choppers are in the way,' Daniels shouted, frustrated. 'And the rate of fire will be slow because of the range. They'll burn their barrels up if they shoot too fast with max charges.'

'I don't give a f.u.c.k about their barrels. You call in the G.o.dd.a.m.n mission.'

Everyone was throwing dirt, cursing, scratching at the earth. Again there were six explosions. Someone screamed.

Mellas dug. At the same time he was timing the pattern. He figured at least two mortars firing three rounds, or maybe even three firing two. With barely enough dug out to get his body in lengthwise, he pushed his face into the soil, feeling naked and exposed.

'Here come the birds!'

Two Huey medevac slicks came shooting in over their heads from the south. FAC-man popped a green smoke grenade and was moving with his radio on his back, talking to the lead bird as it swung up away from the ground and made a looping turn to come back into the zone. Off to the north, m.u.f.fled by the distance, they could hear the deepthroated roar of machine gun fire from one of the two gunships that Fitch had sent over toward Matterhorn.

The big lieutenant ran, limping, across the landing zone. The lead chopper hit the earth hard. Marines loaded the wounded. The lieutenant waited for the second chopper, helped more of the wounded aboard, threw the dead body inside, and climbed on the skids. The chopper was just getting airborne, its nose tipped down as it gained forward speed, when six more mortar rounds. .h.i.t. The explosions hid the chopper from view. Then it cleared the smoke at the far end of the zone and lifted into the air.

'Let's get the f.u.c.k out of here,' Fitch said. 'G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Daniels, get us some f.u.c.king smoke.' Daniels already knew that he couldn't effectively counter the mortars. His only hope was to lay a smoke screen between the company and the ridgeline to the north. The sh.e.l.ls, however, weren't striking where he'd called for them. With Eiger abandoned, he was forced to use the 8-inch howitzers on Sherpa, but they were at the edge of their range. At that distance the sh.e.l.ls were subject to winds and temperature differentials he could only guess at. He hoped that where they did land would be good enough. He looked uneasily at the clouds hiding the tops of the ridges.

Bravo Company split into three columns and moved into the protection of the jungle. A final NVA mortar sh.e.l.l found the tail of Kendall's platoon before they reached the cover of the trees, and two more Marines were wounded, but these weren't emergency medevacs and could be carried. The company had medevaced six kids, none of whom had died, and had rescued Sweet Alice, the reconnaissance team. If they got their other two wounded out by morning they'd have lost no one. They all felt proud. Drained, yet oddly content, they dug in, feeling protected by the thick jungle. In the morning they would be skying out, mission accomplished.

Colonel Simpson, too, felt proud and flushed with success. 'I knew the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were there,' he kept crowing. He and Blakely had just returned to the combat operations center from the regimental briefings, where congratulations had been warm and plentiful. He reached for the hook, calling Bravo Company once again.

Hawke heard Relsnik's voice over the squawk box that enabled everyone in the COC to hear the conversation. Hawke imagined Fitch's eyes rolling. It was at least the fifth time since the fight that the colonel had wanted to talk with Fitch.

Hawke continued plotting air observer and sensor sightings. He didn't like the look of them. Too much activity, right where the colonel wanted it, right where Bravo Company was.

Simpson asked, 'You say you can see them? Over.'

'We sent our Foxtrot Oscar up a tree to call in fire and he says they're digging in on Helicopter Hill. Matterhorn's covered with clouds. We can't see anything on it.' There was a slight pause filled with background static. 'Sweet Alice told me they're probably well entrenched on Matterhorn in our old bunkers. Over.'

Hawke looked to see if Blakely and Simpson had any reaction to Fitch's statement. They didn't show one.

'They've split their forces.' Simpson turned excitedly to Blakely. 'I think we ought to exploit the situation.'

Blakely picked up the hook. 'Bravo Six, this is Big John Three. What do you estimate the enemy size at? Over.'

'Like I said, the Oscar type from Sweet Alice told me he thinks maybe a company. We can only see maybe fifty or so on Helicopter Hill, but there's got to be at least twice that on Matterhorn just to cover the perimeter. Besides, the mortar rounds come in sixes. Over.'

'How many do you see, see, Bravo Six?' Blakely replied. 'Not how many do you guess. Over.' Bravo Six?' Blakely replied. 'Not how many do you guess. Over.'

'Fifty,' was Fitch's terse reply. The handset keyed off and then on again. Fitch's voice was controlled and without intonation. 'Sir, one of my O types did a lot of patrolling down here and he says we've got a good Lima Zulu at-from Comiskey Park-up two-point-two, left one-point-seven.' Fitch was telling them the location of a landing zone using the radio brevity code for the day. 'We can hump over there, it's below the cloud layer, and get out without exposing the wingies to a lot of mortar fire from Matterhorn or Helicopter Hill. Over.'

'Wait one, Bravo Six.' Blakely turned to Simpson. 'You say anything about lifting them out, sir?'

'f.u.c.k, no. Not with the gooks with their tails between their legs and me with three companies ready to kick a.s.s.'

Hawke stopped putting marks on the map.

'Bravo Six, this is Big John Three. Hold off awhile. I want you to wait at your present pos until you receive a frag order from us. You copy? Over.'

'Roger, copy, Big John Three. Bravo Six out.'

Blakely walked briskly over to the map. Simpson followed him. They stood looking at it, aware that everyone's eyes were on them.

'We've got a known platoon-size unit, maybe more,' Blakely said. 'A fresh company of Marines who know the enemy territory like the back of their hands. And d.a.m.n near a battalion in reserve.'

'I knew the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were there,' Simpson said. 'No one would listen to me. I'm ordering Bravo Company into the a.s.sault. I'll go confirm with Mulvaney right now. I bet he's just eating boiled crow.' Simpson laughed, high on excitement and success.

Blakely could see that this was an opportunity. He knew they had only a little time before the enemy consolidated on the two hills, but he also knew Fitch couldn't leave his wounded behind without protection and this would weaken his a.s.saulting force. If there was a company up there, as Fitch suspected, attacking it would be foolish. They had no surprise, no local superiority, and no real firepower, with all the artillery batteries pulled back because of the Cam Lo operation. It would take time to shift a couple of batteries back out that way, but that would of course leave the other battalions with less support, and that wouldn't be done unless Mulvaney agreed.

On the other hand, it was the first time in a couple of months they actually knew where a sizable unit was. If he could keep Simpson under control, they might be able to do some real damage. Meanwhile, they had to keep Nagoolian fixed. And they would have to commit the battalion, for which they needed Mulvaney's OK. That wouldn't be easy. Mulvaney had been criticized before about getting too aggressive, and his b.i.t.c.hing about the Cam Lo operation hadn't scored him any points with the bra.s.s.

But people also got criticized for not being aggressive enough, and that was far worse. The log would show a unit of fifty on Helicopter Hill. Blakely had learned that younger officers tended to overestimate the size of the enemy force they were facing, so maybe there were thirty gooks up there. But the enemy was digging in, probably with machine guns, and certainly had mortars. Thirty on Helicopter Hill meant at least seventy or eighty on Matterhorn. Still, with air support, a fresh company of Marines could easily take them. A vague thought about the difficulty of fixed wing support with monsoon clouds surfaced in his mind but was quickly repressed by the thought that helicopter gunships could get in there. They'd done it earlier today, after all.

Obviously they didn't need the f.u.c.king hill. They'd abandoned it themselves. But Blakely knew that the fight was no longer about terrain; it was about attrition. Body count. That was the job, and he'd do it. If there was a company up there, a battalion couldn't be too far away. And if he could fix that battalion in place using the battalion's three remaining rifle companies and any others that Mulvaney could spare, they'd have a field day. They could bring in the B-52s from Guam, flying well above the monsoon clouds, and cream the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds whether they could see them or not. There would finally be something tangible to report instead of these infuriating dribbles of kills and casualties they'd been turning in for weeks.

Blakely began calculating lift capacities and artillery positions. They were too far inland for naval support, even from the New Jersey New Jersey and its big sixteen-inchers. It would take time to move the artillery to compensate for the inconsistent air support, but they could do it. That meant they had to get Nagoolian to stick while they shifted artillery around-if he could get Mulvaney to go along with it. and its big sixteen-inchers. It would take time to move the artillery to compensate for the inconsistent air support, but they could do it. That meant they had to get Nagoolian to stick while they shifted artillery around-if he could get Mulvaney to go along with it.

He came back to the present at the COC, aware that Simpson was ready to act, but that was about all. 'Sir, before we see Mulvaney, maybe we'd better have a sketch of a plan worked out,' Blakely said. 'This could involve a lot more than just the battalion, you know, if your hunches about the gooks prove correct.'

'Yes, by G.o.d, you're right.'

The two of them walked out of the COC and over to Simpson's tent. Simpson reached for a bottle of Wild Turkey and poured himself a shot. 'This could develop into something really big,' he said, smiling, trying to hide his nervousness. He got a gla.s.s out for Blakely, but Blakely refused. Simpson suddenly felt embarra.s.sed. He hadn't really been thinking about the booze; it was just a natural thing to offer someone a drink. Now he didn't know whether or not to drink the shot he'd poured. G.o.d, he couldn't be drinking-not when a company had recently been in contact with the enemy and was maybe about to go into the a.s.sault. He put the bottle away, looked at the shot gla.s.s sitting on his table, ignored it, and walked over to the map. 'We'll have to move some artillery batteries if we've got a sizable force there,' he said, trying to regain his command of the situation. He felt like a fool.

'Sir,' Blakely said, 'what do you think the chances are of Mulvaney letting you commit the battalion to retake Matterhorn?'

'What do you mean? You mean he might turn us down?'

'Not if we do it right.' Blakely walked over to Simpson's map. 'Look, sir, Matterhorn is at the ultimate limits of our artillery protection, as you just pointed out, but it's well within range of the gooks out of Co Roc or anywhere else inside Laos. But we can't attack their artillery without political OK.'

'That's no problem,' Simpson said. 'We'll get it. We'll be suppressing fire to help one of our units on this side of the border.'

'It's not the approval that's the problem, sir,' Blakely said. 'It's the process. To get approval we'll have to submit all our reasons why we want it, before we need it.' He paused. 'Or we'll have to have some good reason for needing it when we want it.'

Simpson reached for the shot gla.s.s and tossed down the whiskey. This f.u.c.king political bulls.h.i.t, he thought. G.o.dd.a.m.n, did it f.u.c.k things up. He wasn't exactly sure what Blakely had just said, but he was certain he didn't want to submit a plan to division that involved moving artillery batteries that would be firing into Laos. The recon team was already rescued, and its leader just did it f.u.c.k things up. He wasn't exactly sure what Blakely had just said, but he was certain he didn't want to submit a plan to division that involved moving artillery batteries that would be firing into Laos. The recon team was already rescued, and its leader just thought thought there was a company around. That wasn't good enough. It would look stupid and it wouldn't go. G.o.d there was a company around. That wasn't good enough. It would look stupid and it wouldn't go. G.o.dd.a.m.n these f.u.c.king politicians. He knew the f.u.c.king gooks were right where he'd always figured. Now he couldn't do anything about it. He slammed the empty shot gla.s.s down on the plywood. 'f.u.c.k!' he said. 'We'll have to just fly 'em back home, won't we?' He looked at Blakely but saw no dismay or anger. 'Or don't you think so?' he asked, looking at his operations officer through narrowed eyes. these f.u.c.king politicians. He knew the f.u.c.king gooks were right where he'd always figured. Now he couldn't do anything about it. He slammed the empty shot gla.s.s down on the plywood. 'f.u.c.k!' he said. 'We'll have to just fly 'em back home, won't we?' He looked at Blakely but saw no dismay or anger. 'Or don't you think so?' he asked, looking at his operations officer through narrowed eyes.

'Like I said, sir, a reason for needing it when we want it.'

'Go on.'

'Mulvaney's an old grunt. Nothing but an overweight platoon commander with birds on his shoulders. He'd leap at a chance to get in there and kick a.s.s if he had any excuse at all. But he's not about to take any major plan in to division. You know the scuttleb.u.t.t as well as I do. He's none too popular up there. On the other hand, our job is to kill gooks. If we let an opportunity like this go by, we could look pretty chickens.h.i.t. You've got complete tactical control. You don't need to talk to anyone to do something that doesn't commit other forces you don't control or screw up your current mission. Your log shows fifty gooks. You've got a fresh company, and you know Fitch is probably overestimating the number anyway. It's more like twenty-five or thirty. On the record you've got a three-to-one superiority, and probably a five-to-one. We've got all we need to take them. If we find out there are more and we already have a company in action? Then Then you've got a story you can take to Mulvaney.' you've got a story you can take to Mulvaney.'

Simpson was pacing back and forth, nodding nervously as he listened to Blakely. 'Yes, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I see,' he kept saying.

'I say we commit Bravo now, a perfect exploitation of the success you had this afternoon. If we've got gooks up there, like you've been telling everyone, then we'll find out for sure when Bravo hits Helicopter Hill. If things get too tight, we'll just walk them back to that LZ Fitch told us about and yank them out.'

Simpson stopped pacing and looked at the map.

'If we wait around,' Blakely went on, 'we'll end up watching Nagoolian fade across the border. You'll never prove your case. Commit Bravo and prove your point. Then Mulvaney's got to let you commit the rest of the battalion to support them. Once Bravo's engaged, it'll be just what Mulvaney needs to get his a.s.s off the dime: a bunch of grunts fighting like h.e.l.l and a bunch of grunts waiting to wade in and help them. Otherwise he's liable to back off, worry about patrolling his f.u.c.king firebases. He's still in Korea taking hills. It's attrition that counts in this war. Turf doesn't mean jack s.h.i.t.'

Simpson felt the nervous chill that men feel when faced with decisions that they know can bring the fulfillment, or the ruin, of their dreams and ambitions. He paced back and forth. He kept looking at the map. He wanted a drink but knew he couldn't take one in front of Blakely.

'Sir, the sensor reports confirm what you've suspected all along as well. Your case is airtight.'

'G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Blakely, let me think.'

Blakely kept silent.

After about three minutes Simpson leaned over, his knuckles on the plywood table, and looked up at Blakely. 'All right, by G.o.d, we'll do it.' His eyes were shining with excitement. Then he reached for the gla.s.s.

After making the decision to attack, Blakely and Simpson both grew concerned that sending Bravo in right away might be too hasty. It would require a platoon to move the wounded to a safe LZ. This could entail an a.s.sault with only two platoons, which would look bad if it failed. They could, of course, take the risk of guarding the wounded with only a squad, but if the squad was overwhelmed, and they had evidence from Sweet Alice that a company was in the area, that would be even harder to explain. If they tried to medevac the wounded they risked losing a chopper, and that wouldn't look good either. They both knew that bold moves might have been all right for Stonewall Jackson or George Patton, but this was a different kind of war. They played safe.

The first frag order told Fitch to send a platoon to the LZ with the wounded. Fitch sent Mellas off with Fraca.s.so, who was jumpy after having gone into a hot zone on his first day of command. Mellas humped along in the rear with Ba.s.s, shooting the s.h.i.t, happy to be back with his old platoon. He watched with satisfaction as Fraca.s.so led the platoon to the LZ, accomplished the medevacs, and guided the platoon back by a different route to link up with the rest of the company, now in position closer to the ridge. There, Fitch had set the company in on a small rise of ground, fifty meters inside the protective cover of the jungle. The jungle edged a broad patch of elephant gra.s.s on the valley floor immediately below the approaches to Matterhorn.

This all took until nightfall, giving the NVA plenty of time to dig in on Helicopter Hill.

The second frag order came at twilight. Long before Relsnik finished decoding the order it was apparent that an a.s.sault was being ordered.

Goodwin sauntered up to the CP group. He was eating a can of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s mixed with a package of Wyler's lemonade powder. 'What's up, Jack?' he asked Fitch.

'We're going to take the hill at first light.'

'Matterhorn?'

'No. Helicopter Hill.'

Goodwin whistled. 'Just like in the movies,' he said.

'Let's hope so,' Fitch replied, spreading his map.

Looking at Matterhorn and Helicopter Hill as an attacker, Mellas wondered how he could have been so frightened when he was defending it. Steep fingers led up to the top, divided by deep, heavily jungled gullies. To stay in contact as they advanced, they would have to move in single file. But to move the entire company single file would take hours, exposing them to mortar attack and a possible flanking movement. To attack from the west, north, or south exposed them to automatic weapons fire from the bunkers on Matterhorn. To attack from the east would mean channeling their attack into a narrow front, perfect for defensive machine-gun fire and mortars. Then there was the support problem. They'd have to rely on air.

One plan was scratched. A second was proposed, and then a third. It grew darker. They huddled over the map with their red-lens flashlights. Every plan had a flaw. After three hours of debate they finally realized that there was no perfect plan. Somebody was going to get killed.

Mellas sat down with his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, wishing fervently that Hawke was still with them. He now regretted telling Blakely that Hawke wanted out of the bush and that the battalion might lose him if Blakely didn't act fast-this was a big part of the reason why Hawke wasn't with them. It was all absurd, without reason or meaning. People who didn't even know each other were going to kill each other over a hill none of them cared about. The wind picked up slightly, bringing the smell of the jungle with it. Mellas shivered. He couldn't figure out why they didn't just quit. Yet they wouldn't.

They finally decided to move Fraca.s.so's First Platoon and Kendall's Third Platoon up a long finger that led south from the main ridgeline, starting just east of Helicopter Hill. When they reached the main east-west ridgeline, First Platoon would attack westward and hit Helicopter Hill from the east. They would be supported by Kendall's platoon, which would also act as the reserve. Kendall would set up on a little hump just behind First Platoon's line of departure, from where they could fire over First Platoon's heads. Goodwin's Second Platoon would simultaneously move up a narrower finger that paralleled the one the main body would take and was just to the west of it. Instead of joining the main ridgeline, however, the narrower finger led directly into the south side of Helicopter Hill. The Air Force's defoliation had not been as successful on that finger, so there was good cover almost to the top. Goodwin was to get on line, draping his platoon across the top of the finger and down both sides, if possible without being detected, and attack from the south when Fitch felt the enemy was fully engaged with First Platoon on the east side. In this way Second Platoon would be concealed longer and, once released, would be exposed to fire from Matterhorn itself, which was directly to the finger's west, for the shortest possible time. Approaching in the dark would eliminate fire on Goodwin's platoon from Matterhorn before the a.s.sault, but only if they weren't detected. In fact, a large part of the plan depended on Goodwin's getting into position undetected. When daylight broke and the a.s.sault began, Goodwin's platoon would quickly be mingled with NVA troops on Helicopter Hill, and the NVA on Matterhorn would probably have to hold their fire.

Of course the main issue was the defenders of Helicopter Hill itself. Still, Fitch hoped the dead branches of the defoliated jungle just below the hill might give some concealment and cover if they could attack during the poor light of early morning. That meant everything had to go at dawn, and, he hoped, with the clouds low to the ground. On the other hand, if clouds were close to the ground, there was no hope for air support.

'f.u.c.king brilliant,' Mellas said. 'It took us three f.u.c.king hours to figure out we'll just charge the motherf.u.c.kers.' It was almost with relief that he threw himself into planning the mechanics of departure lines, timing, air coordination, and smoke and hand signals.

They filed out into the blackness of the jungle at 0100, emerging an hour later into the high gra.s.s on the valley's floor. Low clouds, drizzle, and darkness hid Matterhorn and the ridgeline completely. Mellas felt as if his map and the dim red spot of his flashlight were the only reality in a darkness that oppressed not only sight but the mind as well.

They reached the point where Goodwin's platoon was to veer off to the west to begin moving up its a.s.signed finger. Everyone quietly dropped his pack. This was so everyone could save energy on the climb, free themselves for instant and fast movement when the action started, and avoid unnecessary noise. They took only water-canteens topped to prevent the sound of water sloshing-and two cans of food, carefully wrapped in socks to avoid the sound of cans clinking together. Ammunition was carefully placed in cloth pockets. Faces were smeared with clay and dirt.

Even unburdened of their packs, they moved very slowly. The tiniest sounds rang out like bells. Unseen branches slapped at their eyes. The cold fog enveloped them. The kids cursed beneath their breath as they groped for the ground in front of them. They silently cleared limbs from their faces, biting back the need to vent their anger at the pain. They crawled over downed trees, squeezed through thick brambles. Moving quietly in the dark takes a great deal of time. Too much time. Dawn was breaking.

An explosion ahead of the main body sent everyone down to his stomach. A long wailing scream hung in the air. Samms, directly behind Mellas, rose to his feet and whispered, 'Shut the f.u.c.ker up, somebody. Shut that son of a b.i.t.c.h up.' First and Third Platoon had lost the advantage of surprise.

The scream stopped abruptly.

The stillness of the jungle after that anguished sound was like ether-laden cotton, numbing, oppressive, dangerous. Everyone wondered what had happened to cause such pain, and how it had ended.

It had been ended when Jancowitz shut his eyes and jammed his fist into the hole left by the blown-away lower jaw of the kid who had been on point. The shrapnel from the DH-10 directional mine had taken out his eyes and lower jaw but had left his vocal cords intact. One foot had been ripped off as well.

Jancowitz pulled his b.l.o.o.d.y hand from the mess around the kid's throat. A piece of jawbone with two teeth in it caught on the opal ring Susi had bought for him. Fredrickson rushed up and pinched the spurting carotid artery with one hand while he fumbled to stuff a thick bandage pad against the stump of the lower leg.

Jancowitz touched Fredrickson on the shoulder and shook it gently. 'Let him die, Doc,' he said.