Cambodian Hellhole by Stephen Mertz Page A

backup team as well, he would be something of a national celebrity. A hero, yes. And deservedly so.
    Ngu stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, smiling to himself through the rising screen of smoke. He closed his eyes and dreamed of greatness.
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    C rouching in the undergrowth, Hog Wiley watched the camp, unmoving, unblinking, studying each detail of the layout as best he could by Starlite scope.
    They did not possess a generator down there, from the look of things—or else they were not using it tonight. A bonfire in the center of the compound, and lanterns or torches around at intervals, provided spotty illumination while leaving much of the camp's interior in darkness.
    That was probably deliberate, the Texan knew. With Stone in custody, whether they had broken him or not, the commander had to know that there were other hostiles in the immediate vicinity. He could not deny them visibility by day, but in the darkness . . .
    Hog had half expected a patrol to issue forth when Stone was bagged, but it was too late now, he knew. Tomorrow, perhaps, they could expect a hunter-killer team to come shuffling after them.
    And they would greet them with open arms, oh yes. A little something to remember them by on their way to hell.
    It ate at him to think of Stone down there, crammed into one of the holding cages—or worse. He could not picture Stone dead, would not allow himself to picture it—although he knew the possibility existed, if Stone had proved too damned resistant under questioning, or if he had said something—anything—that might have pissed off the commander of the garrison.
    They had not heard a shot, granted, but there were many ways to die inside a prison compound. Stone could have been knifed or had his throat slit, been strangled or beaten to death . . .
    Hog cut off the gruesome litany, making his mind a deliberate blank to drive away the images of slaughter. Time enough for that shit later, if the evil prophecy came true. When they had found the body, checked the pulse, then he would think about grieving for one of the few men he had called friend in recent years.
    Mark Stone was a survivor—first, last, and always. If there was any way to come out of this thing alive and kicking, Stone could be counted upon to come up with it. At times his skills seemed infinite, and yet . . .
    He had been captured.
    It was a fluke, Wiley knew. It could happen to anyone, but he had to wonder how much Stone's personal stake in the mission had contributed to carelessness.
    The captain had been wired, no doubt about it, when he eased himself inside that drainage pipe and slithered out of sight. Hog did not know the man called Lynch, but Stone owed him one.
    A debt of blood and honor, from the war.
    Okay. Hog understood that much. He'd run up a few such debts himself.
    One of them was owed to Stone.
    The man whom Hog affectionately called Cap had saved Wiley more than once from certain death when they were teamed together in Vietnam. On one occasion, Stone had even pulled him out of a melee behind the lines which could have cost his life—or a dishonorable discharge, at the very least.
    And Stone had kept right on saving him, as recently as Bangkok, two days back, when every knife-happy shit in that rundown whorehouse had been out for a slice of Hog, and there was nothing there to hold them back. Stone had been there for Wiley—along with Loughlin—and again, the captain had pulled him out of the crapper.
    Hog owed Stone a debt, right. And he meant to pay it.
    Tomorrow, next day at the latest, he would be extracting Stone from the prison camp, along with every other living mother's son who looked, sounded, or smelled like an American.
    Hog would do it, or he would die in the attempt.
    It was that simple.

Chapter Thirteen
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    M ark Stone came slowly back to consciousness, by degrees recovering awareness of each ache and pain that wracked his tortured body. Rough and rigid floorboards