coming in the first place.
Ngu started ticking off the possibilities.
He had the man in custody; it was his show. He could report it at his leisure, certainly when everything was well under controlâand reap the rewards for handing the government a valuable propaganda tool.
It should be more than enough, given time and fortune, to get him the hell out of this stinking pesthole and back to Hanoi. He was sick of jungle duty and the reeking prisoners of every race with whom he was forced to deal on a daily basis. He had not joined the army to become a prison guard, and if something did not happen soon in his career . . .
But it had happened. Here. Now.
The American scum had unwittingly handed Ngu his transferâprobably a promotion, as wellâon the proverbial silver platter.
No. Make that gold.
Like the gold the prisoners were mining in the hills nearby. How many tons had they taken out of the rocky caverns in two years' time?
How much of it had he kept for himself?
The answer to the second question could be measured with a great deal more precision than the answer to the first. And when Ngu returned to Hanoi, or wherever he was transferred, he would be able to afford the good life.
Women.
Wine.
More women.
Even in a socialist republic, there was room for personal advancement, private pleasure. He had learned as much during his days as a combatant in the revolution, and beyond. Somehow the people's government had stopped short of actually extending to the massesâwhich was fine with Ngu.
He was no longer one of the masses, the peasants who groveled and scraped in the paddies for their meager bowls of rice.
He was on his way to the top. Ironically, an American would help to put him there.
If nothing went disastrously wrong.
He pushed the thoughts of his golden future aside and returned for the moment to the present, his defensive preparations for the camp.
Ngu had already doubled the sentries along the entire perimeter of the compound, and tripled them around the prison cages in its center. No one would pass in or out tonight, and as for the drain that had admitted their unexpected guest, two men with AK-47s would be down inside it for the duration of the crisis, waiting for a backup team to show.
He had resisted the suggestion of a night patrol, unsatisfied with the meaningless answers his prisoner had given him, and unwilling to risk a portion of his smallish garrison force in the darkness, going up against an unknown force of unknown capabilities.
His soldiers knew the surrounding terrain, of course, but their world was confined primarily to the compound, the road that led away from it, and the mines at the other end.
They could launch a respectable patrol at need, as on the rare occasions when a prisoner made a pathetic break for freedom . . . but they were a long way from being seasoned jungle fighters. Most of them had come into the service since 1975, when the real fighting with the French and Americans was over, and only a scattered handful of them had seen sporadic action against the Chinese in recent years. Aside from himself, there were not a dozen seasoned combat veterans in the garrison.
Ngu was not concerned. Not overly, at any rate.
His force was large enough to handle anything that came his way, provided that it came without air support, armor, or artillery. From the looks of the American they had in custody, he was expecting a small force, Special Forces caliber, rigged for light combat, hit-and-run.
It would be no problem.
He briefly considered suspending mining operations until the issue was resolved, then quickly rejected the idea. The per diem was all-important, the critical factor here and now. His superiors would clearly expect him to deal with this minor-league crisis. without sacrificing production in the mines.
He would not disappoint them, Ngu decided. There was time yet for him to become a hero, the indispensible man. With this American in custody, and soon his
Ngu started ticking off the possibilities.
He had the man in custody; it was his show. He could report it at his leisure, certainly when everything was well under controlâand reap the rewards for handing the government a valuable propaganda tool.
It should be more than enough, given time and fortune, to get him the hell out of this stinking pesthole and back to Hanoi. He was sick of jungle duty and the reeking prisoners of every race with whom he was forced to deal on a daily basis. He had not joined the army to become a prison guard, and if something did not happen soon in his career . . .
But it had happened. Here. Now.
The American scum had unwittingly handed Ngu his transferâprobably a promotion, as wellâon the proverbial silver platter.
No. Make that gold.
Like the gold the prisoners were mining in the hills nearby. How many tons had they taken out of the rocky caverns in two years' time?
How much of it had he kept for himself?
The answer to the second question could be measured with a great deal more precision than the answer to the first. And when Ngu returned to Hanoi, or wherever he was transferred, he would be able to afford the good life.
Women.
Wine.
More women.
Even in a socialist republic, there was room for personal advancement, private pleasure. He had learned as much during his days as a combatant in the revolution, and beyond. Somehow the people's government had stopped short of actually extending to the massesâwhich was fine with Ngu.
He was no longer one of the masses, the peasants who groveled and scraped in the paddies for their meager bowls of rice.
He was on his way to the top. Ironically, an American would help to put him there.
If nothing went disastrously wrong.
He pushed the thoughts of his golden future aside and returned for the moment to the present, his defensive preparations for the camp.
Ngu had already doubled the sentries along the entire perimeter of the compound, and tripled them around the prison cages in its center. No one would pass in or out tonight, and as for the drain that had admitted their unexpected guest, two men with AK-47s would be down inside it for the duration of the crisis, waiting for a backup team to show.
He had resisted the suggestion of a night patrol, unsatisfied with the meaningless answers his prisoner had given him, and unwilling to risk a portion of his smallish garrison force in the darkness, going up against an unknown force of unknown capabilities.
His soldiers knew the surrounding terrain, of course, but their world was confined primarily to the compound, the road that led away from it, and the mines at the other end.
They could launch a respectable patrol at need, as on the rare occasions when a prisoner made a pathetic break for freedom . . . but they were a long way from being seasoned jungle fighters. Most of them had come into the service since 1975, when the real fighting with the French and Americans was over, and only a scattered handful of them had seen sporadic action against the Chinese in recent years. Aside from himself, there were not a dozen seasoned combat veterans in the garrison.
Ngu was not concerned. Not overly, at any rate.
His force was large enough to handle anything that came his way, provided that it came without air support, armor, or artillery. From the looks of the American they had in custody, he was expecting a small force, Special Forces caliber, rigged for light combat, hit-and-run.
It would be no problem.
He briefly considered suspending mining operations until the issue was resolved, then quickly rejected the idea. The per diem was all-important, the critical factor here and now. His superiors would clearly expect him to deal with this minor-league crisis. without sacrificing production in the mines.
He would not disappoint them, Ngu decided. There was time yet for him to become a hero, the indispensible man. With this American in custody, and soon his
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