1

Wallace Lee's

LAST KNOWN ALIVE

Part I

'The Baker team's last mission’

Based on characters created by:
David Morrell

Test reading:
Federico Ragazzi
Francesco Munari
Mat Thomas Marchand
Flavio Brio
Salvatore Paparcurri

Website Design by:

Marco Faccio

Cover art:
copertina di Paolo Cubadda da un'idea di Wallace Lee

A special thanks:
A tutti I veterani che hanno contribuito a questo libro;
le parole non bastano. Grazie di cuore.

Revised by:
Angela Kitty Ernani
“Gal-does-words” on Fivrr

Double Edged Ghost Writings, 2021

ramboyearone@gmail.com

Copyright:
I personaggi di Rambo e del colonnello Sam Trautman sono stati creati da David Morrell nel suo romanzo Primo
Sangue, copyright 1972, 2021. Tutti i diritti sono riservati. Tali personaggi sono stati inclusi in questo libro con il
permesso di David Morrell, alla condizione che nessuna parte della trama sia messa in vendita. L'uso dei personaggi
non implica approvazione della trama da parte di David Morrell.
Il coltello First Blood è stato disegnato dal fabbro dell'Arkansas Jimmy Lile (1982).
Tutto ciò che leggerete in questo libro al momento della sua uscita 2021) e che non appare in alcun film o libro ufficiale
della saga di Rambo, proviene dal lavoro originale dell'autore. Copia elettronica per la lettura privata, la diffusione
gratuita e la valutazione da parte di siti e riviste.
Qualunque utilizzo commerciale è proibito.

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Dear readers,

What you are about to read is the prelude to FIRST BLOOD.

It's a two volume mini saga within the saga in the final chapter of Rambo Year One.

Some of you have been waiting for this, my last and final work in particular, for
years.
Indeed, the majority of you have been waiting for this particular piece on Rambo for
decades if we really want to be precise.

And even if the publishing industry could care less about the author himself (as
though seven novels like the ones you’ve read could have been written that well 'by
chance' )... Never mind, it doesn't really matter.
In all those years of work that lead to nothing, Year One did manage to get to you in
any case. Even without the publishing industry’s support.
And now, now we can add Last Known Alive as well.

See you soon, dear readers.

Goodbye.
Thanks again.
Ciao.

Wallace

3
 And now, ladies and gentlemen...

Here's what some of you have waited

more than thirty years for

4
 Last Known alive

Part I

'the Baker team’s final mission'

5
IMAGES AND DOCUMENTS

6
The 'Push dagger'

The push dagger has a double-edged blade and a characteristic 'T' shaped handle.
Despite its ancient origins, this blade didn’t gain popularity in the US until the
beginning of the nineteen century.
It was usually conceal inside the boot or belt and it's still used nowadays for self-
defence mostly by criminals and gamblers.
The push dagger offers two advantages when compared to other kinds of blades.
The first is its size. Being smaller and more compact than the others, makes it easier
to conceal and more comfortable to carry around.
The second advantage derives from how simple it is to use considering that during a
fight it is used just like you were following through with a regular punch. And so, in
order to use it 'skillfully' there's no need for no particular skill nor special training
neither.

Below: a double push dagger concealed inside a belt:

7
PPSH submachine gun

The 7.62 calibre 'Tokaref' submachine gun from Russia was created in close
approximation to earlier designs from Finland.
Although it jammed a lot it was sturdy and cheap enough for Russian and Chinese
manufacturers to produce approximately six million units in the course of the second
world war.

It came with a 'standard' drum magazine and despite its impressive holding capacity
of 71 rounds, soldiers tended to lower it to 65 to prevent it from jamming.
Every magazine drum was 'personalized' and had its own serial number to avoid
confusion. Each magazine was finished by hand and only worked in the gun it was
created for.
Given the weight of the drums, the time it took to reload 65 rounds at time and the
fact that Soldiers couldn’t swop magazines if necessary, made the usual straight
magazine with a 35 round of capacity preferable whenever they had the choice.

Its popularity grew to such an extreme in both China and Russia during World War
Two that the PPSH remained in circulation up until the seventies. This explained why
they were frequently found in Vietcong possession.
There are some still circulating nowadays and mostly at the hands of irregular
soldiers like those fighting in the former Soviet Republics.

On the left, a Russian Soldier with a German prisoner in the Second World War.
On the right a North Vietnamese Soldier (taken in the seventies)

8
Last Known Alive

9
The darkness opened itself up over Danforth... And he found himself lying on a bed.
He was tired.
He was tired, drugged and still drunk. Mostly drunk.
Everything was so fucking confusing ...

Jesus Christ – he thought.

Where the fuck am I?
What day is it?

It was late, one night in October.

A month had already passed since mission Mountain Hunt, but Danforth hadn't stop
partying yet. He just couldn't stop.
Because this time it was a close call.
He had come so close dying during Mountain Hunt that now – after such a long
period of uninterrupted partying – he had to finally admit to himself that he had a
small problem with heroin. Yes.
He and Messner had started hitting it a little too often after that last, ‘surreal’ mission.
Nothing they couldn't handle anyway. Nothing to worry about.

A very young, wonderfully made up Vietnamese girl appeared quite suddenly, right
above Danforth. She was so beautiful that she could have been a film star.
That’s when Danforth remembered which brothel he was in.
Lucky for him that brothel was one of the safer ones. Yes, it sure was.
He now remembered everything.
Everything was okay.
Her lips were a marvellous sugary almond pink colour, so rich they shined.

What drug did I fucking take this time? - said a voice inside of him.

Shit.

Why the fuck am I still doing stupid stuff like this? I’m not a kid anymore.
I have a family now.
A son.

Because you can't take it any longer – replied a second voice inside of him, different
from the first.

10
Because you are millions of miles away from home, and even if it's almost over, you
can't stand it any longer anyway. You really can’t take it anymore.
You are literally worn out, Joseph Danforth.

“Fol you only, Gi-ai,” said the girl.

“A special plesent just fol you.”

The girl stroked his chin and then leapt off the bed. Still naked, she quickly slipped
away.

“Close youl eyes,” her voice said again, this time from behind the corner.

Danforth closed them, without hesitating.

Truth be told, he was looking forward to it.
He was so tired that the darkness wrapped itself around him in a flash, and it was the
sort of darkness he welcomed like he would an embrace.
Yet, something wasn’t right.
Yeah, it didn’t feel right.
There was something wrong there, in that darkness.
So Danforth immediately opened his eyes back up.

A tall, skinny Vietnamese man, sporting the usual, damn crewcut (the same haircut
that had become – as a matter of fact – the Vietcong military trademark) was waving
a long rusty bayonet right in front of him. And at the first sing of Danforth's moving
the blade fell lightning fast down on to him and even faster than his eyes could
possibly follow.
Nevertheless Danforth proved to be even faster than that.
He dove to the side right off the bed like he was flying or something, and ended up
hitting the floor pretty hard.

SBAM!

Only seconds later the assassin’s blade sliced pointlessly through the mattress –
resulting in a resounding clang! when he hit the underlying springs and steel met
steel, Danforth swiftly moved his hand along the side of the his bed and reached for
the push dagger he always kept inside his boot.
The Vietcong assassin (and that’s what he certainly was ) stood ready to jump back
on him, but Danforth was armed by then.
He had drawn his push dagger from its sheath, got to his feet and now was ready
Yes he was.
No matter how drugged up or drunk he may have been at that moment, not a person
in the world could beat him at a knife fight.

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That was the kind of game Danforth had played since the dawn of time.
It was something he had learned long before joining the SOG, and no one would ever
get the upper hand on him.

Danforth brought both fists right up to his face like a boxer ready to block.

The bayonet was much longer than Danforth's push dagger, so it gave the Vietcong an
advantage in terms of reach.
But in the end, it wouldn't make any difference.
That VC was about to become a dead man and he had no idea.

The two men faced each other for a moment both fully-aware that only one of them
would ever leave that room alive.
To be frank, that was the kind of situation that used to happen quite a bit in Vietnam.

Joseph was high, drunk and in shock, but even in the state he was in, he trusted his
knife skills enough to not be worried in the least. It was quite the contrary actually.
He was starting to enjoy it.

The Vietcong attacked first, but before striking he retracted his blade backward to
give his arm more power.

Rookie - thought Danforth.

You don't charge knives with power. Otherwise, what would be the point of using a
blade and not your fists?

Contrary to a fist, a knife can hit at any speed without becoming less dangerous
because it doesn’t require strength to do damage. The blade takes care of it.
And so, when the Vietcong pulled back his arm as Danforth had predicted, he went
ahead and cut all the way down his other arm instead.

It was then that the Vietcong hesitated ever so slightly because of the pain.

But that brief moment of hesitation was enough to open the door for Danforth's next
attack.
Danforth had no intention of pausing between attacks the way they usually did in the
movies, which is precisely the reason why it was all over in a matter of seconds.

This time the Baker Team Soldier flew at his enemy with a succession of an ultra-
fast, right handed blows like a boxer with his punching bag.
But those weren’t just punches, they were stabs.
A few seconds and a dozen hard swings later, the VC had been stabbed just as many
times.

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The bayonet fell out of the Vietcong’s hands, who lacked sufficient strength to
continue -

Clang!

That didn’t stop Danforth however.

He kept on stabbing his enemy as fast as he could with the exact lightning speed US
inmates used on the inside when they had to.
And Danforth would know, having been there himself.

Zac-Zac-Zac-Zac

At one point he even started breathing faster the same way boxers do while training.

HU! HU! HU!

In the meantime, the man’s chest looked like it was about to cave in from getting such
a beating and there was blood shooting out all over the place.
And when the body finally collapsed to the ground the amount of blood that was
now all over the room had reached epic proportions.

Danforth stopped.

He was full of blood, now.

His belly was shaken by being out of breath and his heart was beating hard inside his
chest because of the adrenaline. He had even got some blood in his eyes, but
infectious diseases weren't scary in the seventies like they are nowadays. Those were
different times back then.

Danforth wiped his face a little with the back of his hand as he examined the rest of
the room.

The white sheets were covered in blood and there were pieces of intestine all over the
floor.
It had been a slaughter show, but Danforth was still alive.
As always.

The only reason I’m still alive is because this damn brothel happens to be in one of
our zones– he thought bitterly to himself.

If it had been anywhere else, this asshole would’ve unloaded a magazine in me while
I was sleeping.

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And now I’d be dead.

But thoughts like those were nothing but a distraction for anyone living the kind of
life he was, so Danforth put them right out of his head.
Thanks to his usual luck, he was still alive.
And that’s all that mattered.

14
LAST KNOWN ALIVE

15
PART I

16
Manuel Ortega

17
It was the middle of the day in Saigon.
Inside the Embassy, Ortega queued patiently to use the phone, just like everyone else
in the middle of the chaos.

Everybody was yelling.

The people using the phones were yelling because its only natural to raise your voice
when you talk on the phone, and when you are talking to someone on the other side
of the world you speak even louder. It's a psychological thing.
So everyone ended up yelling because they couldn’t hear anything in all that noise
apart from the telephone users.

Ortega was looking forward to talking to Helen.

He didn’t have a great deal of time to make the call and he had a lot of things to say
to her.
He had to be quick.
He was going to do the very same thing he used to when he was on the radio. He was
very good at that.
By constantly talking by radio for so many years Ortega had become incredibly good
at s summarizing things. So, that was the way he‘d to talk to the woman he loved:
like any good Soldier would on the radio.
Manuel then calmly waited for his turn amid all the chaos, and while he did, he went
over the outline of all of the things he had to say to her once again.
He only had a few months left before whole thing was over.
Ortega would have survived Vietnam. In fact, the odds were even better if you
considered Mountain Hunt to be their last mission.

It went without saying that it wouldn't be long before the Fifth Special Forces
withdrew, and the low rate at which they’d been assigned their missions these past six
months. Taking all this into account made it improbable that the Baker Team was
would be tasked with another high risk mission before they got back to the United
States.
And it was for that reason that Ortega had as good as survived Vietnam by then.
Against all the odds, all the predictions and good old common sense itself. It really
looked like he had done it.
If he thought back to how many insane missions he and his friends had run in all
those years (Mountain Hunt in particular) he almost felt guilty for still being alive.
Anyway, Ortega had survived by then. They had all survived.
Well, that’s to say everyone but Jorgenson and Krakauer. That's true, but a lot of time
had passed since then however.
At this point, it was done.

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He would have gone back home.
Everything was going to be over soon.

Ortega let it ring once.

Twice.
Three times.

Hellen – he thought.

“Manuel?” said her unmistakeable voice in the end.

Yes – he thought.
It really is me, my love.

“Honey?”
“Manuel?”
“How's the little one doing?”
“He is doing fine Manuel. What about you?”
“I’m doing really good.”

Really good – he thought bitterly.

To be honest, it was a miracle that Ortega was still alive despite Mountain Hunt, but
that wasn’t something he could tell Hellen about. Not only were the details classified,
but talking about it was enough to put him in a bad mood too.
That didn’t mean he didn’t want to tell her. Actually, he wished he could.
He wanted to share.

Ortega thought back to when he’d been captured albeit only briefly, in the mountains
just south of the DMZ while he was on that last fucking mission.
Then he recalled how dizzy he’d felt while he was on his own during a lynch by seven
North Vietnamese.
Those were all things Manuel would never have told Hellen about. Not ever.
Not even on his deathbed, God damn it.
He couldn't tell her then, nor in an eventual afterlife, supposing there was one.
Yet, there were things he’d tell her anyway.
He would have gladly made her understand something more, one day.
Just not yet.

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“We’re so close, Manuel. I’m so happy!”
“I hear noise. Is that the little one?”
“Yes, yes, it's him!”
“I love you Hellen!”
“I love you too, Manuel”
“This time everything's going to be all right,” Ortega told her confidently.

You are a saint, Hellen.

I don't know how you managed to wait for me all those years, take care of a child and
put up with me too.

All of those times we ditched each other only to get back together in time for the birth
of our child, and with me enlisting two times too.
I just don’t know how you did it, Hellen.
Forgive me.
Forgive me for how difficult I made things for you and all the problems we had.

“You still there, Manuel? Is everything all right, sweetheart?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here. It's just that I can hardly believe it's almost over.”
“Nevertheless, this time it truly is almost over, my love.”

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PART ONE

21
“It's almost over, Baker Team”

22
John Rambo

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“Come in, John,” said Trautman.

Rambo walked through the door.

Once he’d gestured for Rambo to come in, Trautman immediately glanced down at
his papers again without paying much attention to John or the fact he was there. He
just stood there in front of his desk without moving.
Trautman squinted as he continued to read.
He seemed upset for some reason.

“I have a job for you,” Trautman blurted out in the end as he stared down at the
documents he had in front of him.
“Yessir.”
“At ease, Rambo,” Trautman told him.
“Please, sit down.”

Rambo took the chair next to the desk and sat directly in front of Trautman.
The Colonel finished jotting down a few last minute notes on a notepad before
leaning his back up against his chair and looking straight at Rambo.

“Since when did you start growing moustache, Rambo?”

“It’s been a while, Sir. Since we got back from Mountain Hunt to be exact.”

Trautman snorted.

“Yes,” he said.
“I guess time are changing, aren’t they?”

Rambo didn't reply.

Trautman rubbed his eyes. He was probably very tired that morning.

“Yes, they sure are,” he concluded.

“Okay Rambo: let me get to the point.”

“My role will soon be far more operative than it has been to this point.
I’m not being punished for anything, and that’s especially true if you consider the
kind of results I've been getting. It may look like punishment, but I don't think it is
actually.

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Whatever the case may be, many things that used to matter aren’t as important
anymore, and I’ll soon be on the field much more often than I currently am now.
Practically all the time actually.”

Rambo was staring at the Colonel, but when Trautman looked up at him, Rambo
glanced away to stare at nothing the way he would if he were standing at the ready
despite being seated.

As far as Rambo was concerned, someone like Trautman shouldn't be on the field.
Not only was it a waste of potential, it was incredibly dangerous and highly irregular
considering how much his persona counted.
In fact, it could be regarded as a demotion for someone at Trautman’s level.

“Sir,” Rambo began.

“Go on.”
“You shouldn't fight, Sir.”

Trautman took a deep breath.

Of course he shouldn't fight. That, he thought, went without saying.

“It's just a job at the front, but in the background, John. It isn’t the front line.”

He said it as though there was nothing either he or Rambo could do about it too. So,
if the Colonel was using that tone of voice, he was probably being forced into it.

“Anyway, it's a decision that’s already been made, young man.”

Rambo didn’t say anything.

“The reason I told you John is because I thought you should know. I didn't want you
to find out from someone else, that’s all. Now, let's move onto something else.”

Feeling a little awkward Rambo nodded anyway.

He didn't particularly enjoy that news at all.

“We aren't here to talk about me today, but about you, John. I have a new task to
entrust you with. Something entirely new.”

Trautman tapped his pencil a few times, lightly against the table before continuing.

“From now on, you’ll be personally delivering my reports to Disneyland (a.k.a

MacV). Once a week you’ll put on your uniform, and come here to Saigon and

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deliver it.
That doesn’t mean you’ll be on a regular errand my dear boy.
What you’re really responsible for is showing my reports, not just delivering them.”

Rambo's eyes became wide in astonishment.

“That’s right, Rambo,” Trautman said, giving Rambo a sly grin.

“It's all about talking, John. You'll need to be short and concise. You'll get straight to
the point and won't stop till you know the person getting my files understands why
they are important.
You're to ensure that what you’ve got to say is heard and that the reports are delivered
directly to the people I’ll be informing you of, on a need to know basis.
Your mission will be to get those reports really read, John. Is that clear?”

Rambo hesitated before giving his answer.

“Yessir,” he said in the end.

“Fine.”

Truth be told, at this point Trautman had said what he wanted to say already. Yet,
Rambo didn't dismiss himself however. On the contrary, he stayed there without
moving as though he had something to say but couldn't find the words to say it.

“Sir?” he said after a short pause.

“Permission to speak freely, Sir.”

Trautman looked up.

Here it comes – Trautman thought.

“Go ahead and speak, Soldier.”

“Colonel, I... On my team... Well, on our team there are those who’d be more
qualified than I am for a task of this kind, Sir. Ortega, for instance. Ortega has
outstanding speaking skills...”

Trautman smiled.
So, that was the problem, was it? Of course, it was.

Trautman kept smiling and leaned his back further up against his chair with a sly
likeness. He couldn’t help but think it was funny.

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It was funny to see someone like John feeling uncomfortable for something as stupid
as this.
Almost fun.
Fun?
It was a great fun.
Rambo John J... Winner of the Congressional Medal of Honour, survivor of countless
incursions behind enemy lines, was now scared about doing a fucking bureaucratic
task.
This didn't surprise him at all however.

Only when he was off the battlefield could a problem like this come up when you’re
talking about someone like Rambo, and Trautman was well aware of such.
That kind ‘guard dog’ attitude was nothing new to Trautman.
Quite the contrary.
Through the years he’d met a lot of men like Rambo: lions in the field, but wrecks
behind a desk.
Rambo was still young however.
Not to mention intelligent.
He spoke well and had a clever mind.
He was one of the best and Trautman would have never let someone like him turn
into the type of wreck so many others had after their discharge. Far too many
actually.
That was precisely the reason why Trautman was assigning him that task in the first
place, and whether Rambo wanted it or not, he loved him.
Yes. Trautman would personally make sure that Rambo had a future after that
damned war because he loved him.

“And as such, Ortega would be a better choice in your opinion, is that correct?
Mmmm... Let me think about it for a moment.”

Trautman was taking a piss out of him.

“No, I need Ortega right where he is.”

Then, he continued:
“Alternatively there’s Danforth, but he’s out of his mind. I wouldn’t even let him
report about turkeys' supplies on thanksgiving day to Disneyland if it was necessary.”
“Sir...” Rambo began.

The fact that Trautman was making fun of him made processing everything even
more difficult for someone like Rambo, who lacked any sense of humour
whatsoever.

Trautman then rocked on his chair feeling even more amused than before. The more

27
Rambo looked uncomfortable and got defensive, the more Trautman laughed inside.

“Sir, listen... I don't think I’m the right man for this kind of job.”
“Rambo, I know exactly how you feel,” Trautman said, sounding amused.

That’s when Rambo finally gave up, and Trautman could see it all over his face.
As much as that task made him uncomfortable, it was still an order. As such, Rambo
would have done it as he usually did. The same way he always had, and just like a
thousand other things he didn’t want to do but still did.

“All right John,” the Colonel said in the end.

“Now, listen to me carefully.”

Rambo nodded.

“When all of this is over, you’ll be the right age to be an outstanding instructor at Fort
Bragg.
Each one of you on the Baker Team knows as much about this war as I do by now.
You could all become outstanding instructors, recruiters, or whatever any of you
decide to do or become in your future.
None of your talent or efforts will go to waste after this war is done.
You all have brilliant futures ahead of you. Provided that you really want one of
course.
If that’s what you want, you need to set it up now.
All this means is that you should start thinking about it now, while you’re still here in
Vietnam.”

Rambo didn’t say anything.

He didn’t really have anything to say.
Trautman took a breath, and continued:

“Both you and Ortega in particular are unparalleled. If Harvard was offering lectures
on what war really is, you’d both be experts and teaching it would be a breeze, God
Damn it. But I’ll say it again, John: if you want to have a future after Vietnam, you
have got to think about it now.
And by now, I mean right now.
Right here, in this room.”

None of this was enough for Rambo however.

Quite the contrary, those words went straight out his ears because Rambo – just like
any other Soldier on the Special Forces – couldn't think about his future.
He just couldn't.

28
For anybody on the SOG, thinking about their return to the US – and the lives that
followed – was as surreal as man going back and forth from Mars.
As a result, and despite the fact that Trautman's speech had even been 'touching' in
some aspects, Rambo acted as though he hadn't heard a word he’d said anyway.
Speeches about the future almost frightened him.

“I appreciate this opportunity very much, Sir,” Rambo replied, in a formal fashion, at
the risk of sounding cold.
“It's just that I don't think I will be able to do a good job of it.”

Rambo was about to say something else but Trautman waved his hand in the air to
stop him because he was starting to get annoyed.
He’d been patient with John.
He’d complimented him and even put himself out by admitting he cared about his
future despite the fact that Rambo was just another Soldier among thousands of
others Trautman had dealt with.
At this point however, Trautman had had enough and wouldn't take any shit like this
from Rambo.

“That’s enough, John,” he said.

“Sir?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Rambo looked around like he hadn't done anything.

“Stop feeling weird, awkward, embarrassed or whatever else the fuck you’re feeling
right now. I've known plenty of odd characters but if there’s one thing I can't stand
and that’s you believing crap like that any longer. You’re no fool John, you’re
intelligent, and you know it. Stop pretending all you know how to do is fight.”

“Sir, I...”

“For fuck’s sake John! Stop under estimating yourself!”

Rambo was clearly taken aback.
“You speak well, you can write well, you fight like a God and you know everything
there is to know about this fucking war.
Therefore, you’re the one I want for this job and that's it. Case closed.
The other candidates are either busy with other jobs or aren’t right for the task.
You’re coming here to the MacV, once a week wearing your uniform, and you’ll
present the reports before delivering them so the bigwigs know they’ve got to be
read.

29
And you know exactly how important it is that the bigwigs actually read my reports.
Am I right John?”

Rambo nodded, glancing down.

“Of course, Sir,” he said.

“Fine. Any other questions?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good.” Trautman replied.
“Then we’re done here.”

Rambo stood up at the ready before dismissing himself.

He then went for the door.

“Oh, one last thing, John.”

Rambo stopped, and turned.

“Try not to get yourself killed while you’re in uniform badges and all, will you?”
“Yessir.”
“Very well.”
Trautman made one last gesture dismissing him as he did.

“See you next week, John.”

“You can go.”

30
Berry Delmore

31
Dear Cindy,

Everything's fine, at least it is for me and the boys that is. To be honest, everything
else is falling apart however.
Yes, I'm afraid it’s true.
Don't believe what you see on television.
Don't even believe what the fucking president says because he’s full of bullshit too.
He’s not only lying Cindy, he’s lying up to levels of high treason if you really want to
know.
The truth is that what’s going on here in Vietnam is seriously fucked up.
It's literally done by now. There’s no turning back, and any kind of 'disengagement'
or whatever the fuck they are calling it now would only make matters worse.
Nixon is selling out an entire nation for a handful votes.
What can I say? We'll deal with it guess.
Besides, none of this will matter to us anymore my love.

All of us from the Fifth Special Forces will be back in the US soon, which also
includes The Baker Team too, and I don’t feel guilty about it in the slightest.
Compared to a lot of other guys, we did our duty.
Maybe even went well beyond the call of duty.
Anyway, just make sure you don't believe everything you hear, ok?
There's still a lot to do here and leaving it the way it is will turn out to be a mistake.
It's just not right either.

Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that we’re probably going to stop doing missions
soon. That means we’ll be taking less risks until it’s time to come home, or so it
seems at least.
So I guess it really is almost over, sweetie.
Just a couple more months of being patient, and I’ll be back in the US soon enough.

Then, we can get back to barbequing, swimming in the lake and a mountain of
diapers to change I'm sure.
Believe me when I tell you I want to change them all on my own too!
I can see it now, we'll be living like a king.

Love you, Cindy

Forever yours

Berry

32
One Week Later

33
Rambo was straightening out his moustache as he came down the MacV steps.
His shirt collar was a little tighter than it should have been and that was probably
because he was still feeling a little worked up about it all even if it was all over. In
any case considering it had been his first time it had gone rather well, all the same.
Better than he’d expected.
Frankly speaking, everything had gone perfectly, and as planned.

Trautman was right; Rambo was cut out to do that kind of job.
In fact, he could do it very well too because Rambo was a man of few words.
He was the kind of person that got straight to the point, and that was exactly what
was you had to do when you delivered reports to those fucking dickheads since they
had absolutely no intention of ever reading them at all.

Who would’ve thought? – Rambo asked himself, as he did the steps two at a time.
Trautman had, – he replied right back to himself.
Trautman had said it.

Rambo shook his head in disbelief, almost not believing it himself.

The 'beast' Trautman knows me better than I know myself – he thought.

Fuck.
Like a father or something.

When he dropped off the report, two of the bigwigs had made it perfectly clear to him
– reaping with delusional superiority as they did - that they had absolutely no
intention of reading any such report.

“What is this?
And this?
Come on, Soldier! Move it!”

Rambo managed the situation perfectly: the words flowed smoothly and the two
bigwigs listened carefully too.
This was thanks to how well Rambo knew that war and when he talked about it, he
was clear-cut and concise.
The two bigwigs immediately understood that they were dealing with a straight
talker.

34
Everyone he had spoken to could be considered intelligent, well-educated and highly
dangerous too, not to mention hard-core critics of Trautman's doctrine. Nevertheless
they had all listened to Rambo with the due attention he deserved in each presentation
of all three accounts delivered that day.
As a matter of fact, it didn't just go well, but one could venture to say it went very
well, and that had been the biggest surprise of all for Rambo.

Unbelievable – Rambo thought to himself as he left the embassy.

Absolutely unbelievable.

Stop underestimating yourself, John – Trautman’s voice kept saying in his head.

Maybe there was some truth to it after all and he should give it a rest.
It was at that moment, and probably for the first time in his life that Rambo actually
felt proud of himself.
It was such a uncommon feeling for someone like him to have that it almost made
him uncomfortable.
Trautman had been right about something else too however.
Rambo did, and had often, underestimated himself.
Not always, but there were times that he did. It was especially true in situations
pertaining to anything other than combat and killing in particular.

The Colonel isn't just my boss after all – he thought to himself.

He’s a friend.
A real one too, just like my Baker Team mates are.

Could it be ...
Perhaps Rambo really was meant to pursue a career in the Army.
Well, if it ever happened, it would be thanks to Trautman that it did.
If it hadn’t been for him, Rambo would never have considered taking a job like that.
What’s more, he even demonstrated how good he was at doing it.
It was with that thought in mind that Rambo decided not to head back to the
Triborder zone right away, but to hang around Saigon for a while instead.
Maybe celebrate.
For a moment, he even considered stopping by to have a drink or something, which
was in itself, something he hardly did.
After all, alcohol had very little effect and he could easily snap out of it if he needed
to. This was true for any other kind of alteration, like stress for instance, and that was
thanks to what he’d learned in training.
Nevertheless, he decided against it but not because he wanted to be on the safe side.
That wasn’t it at all.
The truth was that drinking made him think of his father. Since the last thing he
wanted to do was remember his father, especially if he planned on celebrating, then

35
he’d rather not.
Anyway, Rambo felt like being around people, be part of a crowd and for people he
meant real people and not Soldiers. So he decided to enjoy this feeling of triumph, at
least for a while given that it was the first time he’d ever felt that way.

Now determined, Rambo thought about making his way to the bigwig bar, and having
something to drink there.

It wouldn’t be like going to any other bar, but since he was in full uniform, with the
Ribbon For Valour pinned to his chest as well he doubted he’d have any problems
getting in.

As he walked in, Rambo couldn’t help taking a quick look around the way he did to
immediately assess any potential threats and scope out all the exits. It was a collateral
consequence of his job, and anyway, you never knew when the need to make a quick
exit could arise. He continued forward walking towards the Officers' bar.

That’s when he met Layla.

He could tell that there was some kind of celebration going on that day because the
Embassy bar was packed. It might have been a promotion, a birthday or something
else but Rambo didn’t really care. Whatever the reason may have been, there was
finally modern music playing and it was pumping a lot higher than it usually did in
there.
Later on, Rambo found out from a couple of nurses that the reason for the celebration
was a baby boy had been born.
The woman, a wife and now mother, was Vietnamese.
In this case she was a real wife and not simply a symbolic one.
The festivities were meant to honour the celebrated one.

Rambo couldn’t help but notice that his uniform, and badges in particular, made
people quite talkative with him.
The newly acquired look, thanks to the moustache he was now sporting, along with
his uniform which was covered in badges and ribbons and maybe even the fact that
he’d successfully delivered his first reports... All made that day a very particular one
for Rambo.
Most important of all, he was happy.
Being happy and the feelings that went with it in particular weren’t what he was used
to.
That may have been why the moment Layla saw John smiling, she immediately lost
her mind over him. Despite never having never met before, it was enough to see him

36
standing there among all those other officers, to never be the same again.

Layla was a petite blond with silky hair and blue eyes. Her face was perfect and
shaped like a diamond, and her hair was the kind of soft you didn't around anymore.
After talking to him for more than an hour Layla finally invited him over to her place.

37
Half an hour later, at the Continental Hotel in Saigon,
after strolling leisurely all the way there.

38
“Do you want to come in John?”
Rambo nodded.
“Yeah,” he said.

39
Layla put her fingers through Rambo's hair.
She smiled.
Rambo wasn’t as built as he would have been some years later (especially after he’d
served time for instance) but his nerves were acting up as he pondered over nothing
and everything already.
Nerves that were a tell-tale sign of all the gruelling years the young man had spent
training, marching infinitely and strenuous physical activity. His body was covered
by scars and scratches, the longest being the one that went all the way down his right
arm. He’d got that one from doing his baptism of fire, generally referred to as
'Operation Black Spot' .
It was only when Layla noticed the constellation of different sized marks and that
central scar in particular, as she undressed him, did she lose her smile temporarily.

The long faded scar went all the way along his right biceps.

Rambo noticed she’d suddenly become distracted by something, but seconds later
Layla went back to smiling once more. She didn't want to do anything that could ruin
it all over nothing. Especially something like that.

“Look at me, John,” said the woman as she caressed Rambo's face gently with her
hands in hopes of putting everything right once again.
“Look at me.”

Rambo let his face turn in her direction and he literally fell helplessly in those eyes.
Eyes that were, to his belief, far too beautiful and too happy for someone like him. He
just couldn't.
They were so beautiful it almost hurt to look at them.
As John and Layla kissed each other, he continued to see those eyes like they were
becoming a fixed part and forever in his mind.

When the kiss ended, Rambo opened his eyes once again.

The feelings he had at that moment especially when he looked her in the eyes (at
least!) wrapped themselves around him so warmly, and so tightly it hurt. It was
literally hurting him like hell.
He wasn’t use to that sort of thing. He’d never had anything like that before then.
Most people had them already, but not him. Not yet.

40
He couldn’t help but think of all the guys he knew who were back in the US, and
married since they were eighteen, the ones who had never been at war. Not even for a
single day.
Then, on the other side, guys like him...

My life was hell.

Rambo swallowed in front of Layla as he looked away from her.
Dante's hell.

Then something happened, a powerful stream of light, a sense of enlightenment, all in

his head.
Almost like a vision.
A cosmic revelation it seemed, because that's the kind of thing women sometimes do
to a man’s head.

Rambo had wasted his entire life training (suffering) or fighting (suffering even
worse). That had been his life.

The very idea that he could have spent it that way instead, if he had just been given
the chance. Spend it with someone like Layla.
Have a normal job.
Live a normal life.
To live all those wonderful moments practically every single day, would be like
diving into those wonderful eyes the way he was now, at that very moment.

To love,
to start a family,
to love even more.

Just like everybody else did, given the circumstances.

Normal people that is (God damn it!), but not people like him.
Everyone else.

He would have done anything to protect something like that. Whatever it took.

If only...

If only he had understood it before now.

If only I had found someone like her before now – he thought as he held her tightly in
his arms.

Two years ago, everything would have been different.

Two years ago, I could have become a normal person if I had only met someone like

41
her.
But now...

Now it was simply too late.

He was out of time by a long shot by then.
After everything he had been through and, above all, after everything he had done in
in Vietnam. It was far too late for someone like him.
Right?

No – something or someone said inside his head, as they kissed once more.

Could it be Trautman's voice perhaps?

Or was it instead his best friend Manuel Ortega, speaking to him?
Perhaps it was both because neither believed it?
Rambo had no idea what to think.
Everything was so confusing.

'Life can be good too, John' – Manuel Ortega had told him a long time ago, in a bar in
Dak To.
'Go to her.'

Ortega – as was the case for Trautman as well – was always right when it came to
certain things. Especially things like the ones he was talking about now.
Rambo found it difficult to describe. When those eyes of her looked at him...
They looked right back.

“I like the way you look at me.” she had told him as she guided him towards her and
seat himself on the bed.

Yes...
Those eyes gave back.
And the comment...

I like the way you look at me.

That was best thing a woman had ever said to him, ever.
It was proof of what Layla had just said. He needed her eyes just as much as she
needed his.
It hurt that Layla needed him.
Because if that’s the way it really was, well...
Maybe then...

Maybe joining the Special Forces in '69 had been the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

42
Maybe he’d sold his soul to the devil, and didn’t even know it.
Rambo had sold it.
Oh, he certainly had.
Then it went without saying that Rambo had got everything wrong until then.

Rambo's heart started pounding inside his chest out of nowhere, without reason.
He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath and calmed himself down the
same way he would have while on a mission. He’d learned to turn himself off like a
switch.
This time it was different however.
It was very different.

Calm down – he told himself.

Nothing's happening, calm down.

Layla smiled at him sweetly as she laid herself down on the marvellous four poster
bed in front of him.

Rambo bent down to kiss her again.

After that final kiss Layla hugged John as hard as she could and did her utmost to pull
him back onto the bed with her, but ended up dragging them both onto the floor
instead.

Still hugging they found themselves on the wooden floor, and had hit it with a thud,
Layla burst out laughing.

Rambo's sense of anxiety had disappeared just like that, like magic, and it was all
thanks to the way she put him at ease.

Rambo was even happier, now.

He was truly, unequivocally happy.
Too many years had gone by since he’d been that light-hearted for real.
To be honest, he had never been as light-hearted as that ever before.
Not with the kind of father he had growing up.

“I like you, John,” said Layla giggling.

“I like you a lot.”

This time when their lips met again, she moved her entire body up against him.
She wanted to make love to him, now. She was ready.

Layla slipped off her shirt.

43
Rambo did the same.

They had been half naked and pushing closer and closer to each other for a while
already so by that point, there was nothing in the world that could have held them
back a second longer.
Rambo saw that the look in her eyes had become suddenly serious. It almost seemed
defiant as she took off what little clothing he was still wearing.
In fact, it was with the same conviction that she put him inside of her.

When Rambo felt that indescribable, all-encompassing sensation, along with the way
she felt there in his arms (like she was his and his alone) a powerful sense of fear in
the form of light headedness, suddenly came over him.

Stop this, John – said a voice inside of him.

It’ll distract you.
It’s all going to distract you.
Being distracted in Vietnam meant only one thing, and that was dying.

But she was so beautiful – and that euphoric light-headedness so unyielding – that
this time he couldn't turn it off. Not like a switch. Not this time. No...
This time he just couldn't do it, and that's it.
So this time (and just this time– thought Rambo inside his head) John decided to run
the risk. He decided to let himself go.
So that’s exactly what he did.

I’ve never been here – he thought.

This is the first time.

Sure, he’d been with other women and that wasn’t what he meant by it being the first
time.
It's just that he’d never pushed himself that far before. He couldn’t allow himself to
feel like that with a woman.
He had never felt anything as strong as that before.
It was with that realization that he was able to finally understood why.

Now he finally knew why everybody always seemed to exaggerate that love thing.
Not to mention the reason they were all so obsessed with it.
Everybody was that obsessed because well, apparently, it could be like this too.

So Damn good.

That was what it was.

Rambo had never made love to a woman that meant so much to him as she did.

44
It was that.
It was that and nothing more.

“You are looking at me like you’ve never done it before, John!” she said, almost
reading his mind.

Layla was out of breath but her smile was beaming once more.
She caressed his chest and kept on moving under him.
Meanwhile he was lost by then ('dangerously lost' – a distant voice continued to
repeat inside of him).
Rambo shut his eyes and tried to gather enough strength inside him, hoping to
somehow, even just temporarily, go back to being himself again.
Right then and there, he knew he couldn't.
He knew he didn't have much of a choice.
If only...
If only he was back in the US, he could have let himself go that way.
But not here, while he was still in Vietnam he couldn't.
Not yet.
If that feeling managed to get inside of himselg somehow, Rambo knew that it
automatically made him vulnerable.
Even though he didn’t have to stay there in Vietnam much longer (and maybe he was
done with the missions too) he still would have been vulnerable because of it. Let's
say it’s premature, that’s all. As long as he planned to be in Vietnam, letting himself
go a little 'too much' could end up being the biggest mistake of his life.
Absolutely not.
You couldn't fight alongside the SOG (not even if they were almost at the end) and be
in love at the same time.
Then it hit him. Suddenly, and when he was least expecting it, it came to him from
right out of nowhere. Rambo finally realized what was actually going on.

He was in love.

For the first time in his life Rambo had fallen in love.
Worse yet, he didn't even know her surname.

Fight it, John – said a voice inside of him.

Don't do it... Don't fall in love.

It won’t end well, John.
You’ll just end up suffering.

The problem was the way she laughed and how she smiled at him and giggled all the
while she was under him. Making love to her was the best and most natural thing

45
there could be in this whole the world, and John never imagined that love could be
that good before.
He’d watched a lot of movies, read a ton of books and met friends that had fallen
head over heels in love with their girlfriends back in the US. But he had never
experienced it for himself, so he hadn’t been able to fully understand it up until then.

Things seemed to be speeding up a little between them.

Just a little.

The smile she’d had on her face until then slowly disappeared. It had been fun and
games up to that point, but they were now starting to take things a bit more seriously.

As pleasure slowly took her breath away his need to provide it was evident as the
expression on his face grew more serious.
He was the source of her pleasure. He was the one giving it to her.
It was then that everything else disappeared in his head.
It all vanished.

His life disappeared, his father, the dangers of it all, everything. All the issues he had
had up until then and throughout his life disappeared.
Even the war itself vanished inside his head. For at that moment, he didn't care about
anything else anymore.
Nothing in the world.

“Love me, John,” she said suddenly, holding him closely with all the strength she had
as they moved in unison.
“Love me.”

She let out a laugh once again, but as he moved with more force than before her
laugh was broken by the all the pleasure.

“Uuh,” she said aloud.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked immediately while instinctively slowing his
movements down a little.
“No, no... For God's sake no. Absolutely not!”

“Yes,” Layla quickly added then.

“Like that.”

“I love you, John Rambo.”

46
“I love you.”

Layla, Saigon, 1971.

47
Dak To

48
Trautman's eyes stared at the map hanging on the wall with a determined, but
somewhat concerned look.
Garner, along with two other Colonels and Ortega were sitting in the corner without
saying a word.
In fact, they wouldn’t say a single word until the very end.

After a while however, Trautman cleared his throat, almost to collect thoughts.
Then, he said:

“We have everything we need, Skorpio. The day and scheduled meeting time means
we know the objective will be there for sure.
What we want to know from you is whether an eight men commando unit can do it,
or not.”

Ortega swallowed.
Now it was his turn.
Ortega rose to his feet.

“North Vietnam?” he said.

“That's right, Soldier,” Trautman replied with a nod.
Ortega shook his head.
“And without being seen,” the Colonel quickly added.

Ortega shook his head again, and this time he even added a slight grimace.

“You know what you are asking of us, Sir?”

“Of course I do, Ortega.”

The team leader moved his hand along his jaw while he reflected. They had been in
North Vietnam three times already and not once had it ended well for them. The first
time in particular.
That first time, had turned into a full-blown disaster.
What’s more, Ortega had lost two very good friends because of it.

“I am asking you to run another sterilized mission,” the Colonel said to him.
“The last one, to be precise.”
“With all due respect, Sir,” Ortega began.

49
“I thought we were done with that shit by now.”
“And in fact we are, considering the SOG is still on hold. You’d be going over there
without any authorization. You’d be going there just on my word”

Ortega looked away.

“Is this a problem for you, Soldier?”

Ortega didn't reply.
That was obviously a trick question.
Trautman then pressed him further:

“Talk to me Soldier. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Before getting started, Ortega took a deep breath.

Only once he’d he gained composure, did he get around to saying what he really had
to say.

“The problem isn’t you, Sir. You’ve never let us down. But those missions, even
when they aren't covert like this one, you never run missions of that kind on your
own.
We’ll need to work with a lot of people to do it. Someone’s got to transport us, get us
reliable radio links and so-on.
You can't guarantee one of them won’t do something stupid.
Not everyone is as professional as you are, Sir.
Now that the Black Ops have been put on hold officially, and in particular its chain of
command which is exactly what’s required to run this kind of mission. Truthfully
speaking, that worries me even more than before.”

Trautman swallowed. That wasn't exactly the kind of answer he was expecting from
Ortega. Not in the least.
Trautman looked Ortega right in the eyes and apart from the disappointment he was
feeling thanks to the reply he’d got, he was feeling something else at that moment
too. It was completely different.
Something very different indeed.
Trautman was proud of Ortega.
Sure, he was annoyed by the fact that he brought problems up when such an
important mission was at stake, of course. He wasn't fine with that, at all.
Nevertheless, deep inside he was proud too because of course, Ortega was right.
Vietnam had changed him.
Ortega, just like the rest of the Baker Team guys, would have a brilliant future once
that war was over.

50
Bravo Ortega – thought Trautman to himself.

“I wouldn't ask you that if I had any another alternatives, Skorpio.”

“I know, Sir.”
“The thing is that peace negotiations are coming up in Paris soon, and under no
circumstances can Yin show up at those negotiations.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Skorpio: the real target isn’t the French guy, it’s Yin.”

Ortega’s mouth opened, and for a moment, that’s how it stayed. He didn’t know what
to say. He was speechless. It was that simple.
Did he hear right?

“Yes,” Trautman confirmed.

“This time the National Liberation Front Soldiers can’t show up at the peace table.”
“Jesus Christ, Colonel.”

Ortega turned to face Garner and then glanced over at the other two Colonels in
hopes of some kind of confirmation that he had heard right. None of them however,
would look him in the face.

“I want Yin dead,” the Colonel confirmed aloud, eliminating any potential doubt he
may have had.
“Colonel, you ...”

Ortega paused while he tried to find the right words before continuing.

“You want to murder the international spokesperson representing the Vietcong. We’re
talking about the kind of target that would require written authorization from the
President himself.”
“... the kind of authorization that I have no intention of asking Nixon for he would
never give it. Not right now, anyway.”

Trautman nodded at Garner and the other two colonels who were still standing there
behind him. One of them had a look of resignation on his face and was clearly
uncomfortable just mentioning about it.

“Let's say,” he began.

“Let's say that we support Trautman's initiative fully, and I mean one hundred per
cent. Mark and I would personally handle all the logistics and provide all the support
you’d need with our units. The only difference this time would be that no one would

51
know where you’re headed to and, more importantly, what you’re going to do once
you get there. We’ll be the only ones who know.”

Ortega didn’t say anything, still not quite believing his own ears.

52
“Another Black Op,” he said to himself.

It wasn't the first time Trautman had launched a mission without the necessary
authorization. It had already happened a few times in the past, and even though there
weren’t many, it still wasn’t the first time, nonetheless.
The only difference was that back then, the President used to approve the Black Ops.
He certainly wasn’t going to launch one now when he’d just put the whole thing on
hold. More importantly however, what they were planning to do this time was
something big too.
Because Yin, well Jesus, he was big.
Yin's death would end up on the cover of Times Magazine.

“South Vietnam has been negotiating with Yin for years, I know,” added Trautman.
“Colonel...” said Ortega, but Trautman stopped him.
“If we really plan on doing it this way,” he began.
“This mission won't be like the others. This time will be different.”
“This time?”
“This time will be like killing a foreign head of state without getting the direct order
from POTUS. Yes, for God's sake, I’m well aware what all this means, Ortega.
I understand the ramifications fully.
Considering how the diplomatic negotiations are going right now, the probability of
getting a green light for this mission from POTUS are less than zero. And, if I take
the chance and propose it, and he ends up rejecting it, we wouldn’t be able to launch
it secretly later on.That’s precisely why I have no intention of even asking for
Goddamn authorization in the first place.
Oh, and if I haven’t made myself clear already, Ortega: whether this mission runs or
not, no one, and I mean no one outside this room will ever find out about it anyway.”

Ortega had never heard Trautman say things like that before. Sure, they had pushed
things to the limit once or twice in the past, but never as far as this. It was insane.
The withdrawal of the Fifth Special Forces was so close that all of this seemed surreal
to Ortega. It was like a dream.He just couldn't believe it was real.

The Baker Team leader looked at Garner and just stared. Then he glanced over at the
other two Colonels, for a second time, in hopes of receiving a better explanation, but
they’d all given in to the idea apparently. They almost looked embarrassed about it
too.
They had made that decision a long time ago, even if he was just hearing about it
now.
It had to be a consequence of a tragic, but desperate necessity, which they didn’t look
forward to in the least. They had probably discussed it for hours – maybe even days –
and, as such. weren’t going to change their minds now.

53
“Colonel, you’ve met Yin in person,” Ortega insisted.
“Now that I think about it, he gave me the impression of being relatively moderate.”
“Yes, I’ve met him. So what? It wouldn't be the first time I got someone I know
personally, taken out. Does that shock you somehow Skorpio?”
“No Sir,” Ortega confessed, leaning his head back and straightening his posture a
little so he was now standing more at the ready. Ortega, feeling somewhat
embarrassed did his best to avoid the Colonel's eyes.
“Let me tell you something about Yin, Ortega.”

“Yin has never been a moderate. His role has always been exactly that, a role.
Nothing more and nothing less than an actor in this fucking film.
Like any other Vietcong on the planet, he doesn’t represent anything either, Ortega.
He believes in nothing and lacks an ideology to believe in. His beliefs change as
easily as he changes his clothes in the morning and his loyalties depend on the orders
he gets directly, or the direction the wind happens to be blowing in.
He’s an actor like the rest of them, a fucking puppet for the Hanoi party.
He was given the role as a moderate because the party decided to show the world it’s
got a moderate side too.
Yin is an image in the truest sense of the word. It's full-blown marketing.
Why they choose him for that exact role, doesn’t make any difference. The same way
it didn’t matter whether he was actually a moderate or not. Whatever the reason, he’s
scheduled to meet with 'the French' because the Vietminh told him to. The Vietminh
on the other hand, wants to hire the French so it can exploit his connections in the
South. That's more than enough reason for me to want to take this so-called moderate
man out.”

Ortega cleared his throat.

He knew exactly what this meant to Trautman.

Jesus Christ – thought Ortega.

It meant that Yin the so-called ‘moderate' had just scheduled a meeting with one of
the most powerful and dangerous gun smugglers in South Vietnam.
It also meant that the Vietminh was trying to recreate a new generation of terrorists in
the South from scratch because of their humiliating defeat in Tet in ’68. A defeat,
which had almost wiped the terrorists out completely. With the French rearming, and
the reorganization of terrorist groups in the South, it could go anyway, in the big
cities especially.
It could get as bad as it was in the past, reaching an all-time low with bombs in
hospitals, churches, schools and even orphanages. It could go back to being what it
was.
The French were capable of doing all those things and more if the meeting turned out

54
well and they initiated a working relationship with the Vietminh.

It went without saying that Ortega didn't want to bear witness to any of that, or watch
helplessly as all that shit regrouped and took place on an even larger scale either.
Ortega couldn't bear that shit anymore, not after the US Army – and the Green Berets
in particular – had spent years trying to get rid of it.
Quite the contrary.
If there was something that had always believed in, it was standing up for the good
guys, even if US policy itself didn’t believe the same thing. Having (almost) defeated
terrorism while it was still in its “purest” form, which was the kind of terrorism they
needed to stop, a lot of innocent people had died during the so called 'Phoenix
program'. Despite how horrible and ethically questionable the program was, it had
obtained the desired result, in the end. If that’s what’s at stake, then ok, although the
price they paid to achieve it was terrible. In the end however, aside from the Tet and
the Phoenix program, they had put an end to the outright massacre of civilians for its
own sake. If Ying and the French came to an agreement now however, in a year or so
everything would have started all over again.
Trautman was dead right about that. If nothing was done to stop the alliance, all the
work they had done so far would have all been in vain.

“Yin’s role as a Damn moderate,” said the Colonel interrupting his thoughts in the
process.
“...The South Vietnamese were taken in, the world press was taken in, even Nixon
was taken in, but I wasn't. Yin never fooled me. He may have fooled the whole world,
but not me. I’ve always known he was just playing.
And just the fact that he’s going to meet with the French now demonstrates I’ve
always been right.
Yin is just another fucking Vietcong signing truces with one hand, ordering the
massacre of civilians with the other and hoping no one will notice in the process.
I knew those things were certain in the past: it's the rest of the military that never
believed me. And those two Colonels will confirm it. That's the reason they’re both
here.”

“It’s true,” nodded one of the Colonels speaking for them both.
“Trautman has always been right. From the start.”

“And if the Vietnamization keeps going at this pace,” Trautman continued.

“One day we may not be here. And I have no intention of leaving the ARVN alone
with Yin and the French. Not for a moment.”

Ortega nodded.
He was perplexed, but nodded anyway.

55
If the evidence against Yin was that strong, why hadn’t anyone believed the Colonel
before?Nevertheless, Ortega decided not to comment because discussing Intel matters
wasn’t his job.
He was there to provide 'technical' expertise about the mission.

“The facts speak for themselves Skorpio. And then of course there’s the fact that I‘ve
lost some very close friends because of Yin, that motherfucker.
Worthy men.
And always because of his fake fucking truces.”

Ortega nodded. Then he took a moment for himself to reflect as he looked at the map
once again.

Killing a Vietcong diplomat without authorization was a very, very serious matter.
Not one to be underestimated in the least. Had the subject come to light, they
probably would have ended up Court Martialled. Once there, they would have had to
lie and say it had been an initiative of theirs to save Trautman's ass.
Yet, considering the kind of risks they were accustomed to taking, standing in front of
a Martial Court didn't upset Ortega all that much.

“There's one more thing, Skorpio.”

Ortega looked up once more.
“If you do accept, this mission will be of maximum priority.”

Ortega gulped.

That was it. Hearing something like that even made someone as thick skinned as
Ortega feel uncomfortable.

The term 'maximum priority' - when used in the context of special missions - meant
that they either achieved their objective or died trying and there were no half
measures in between.
Getting home alive – without accomplishing the mission– just wasn’t an option on a
maximum priority mission.

“Having said...” began Ortega as he cleared his throat, but Trautman quickly
interrupted him with a wave of the hand.

“Look, it's very simple Ortega. This objective is of such importance that I either send
someone who will get the job done, or I bomb that fucking viper's nest, even
unofficially if necessary myself, and deal with the aftermath later.”
“Aftermath? - said Ortega - Sir, if you sent a pack of B52s there without authorization
they'd throw you out of the Army. If that’s what we call aftermath, well then ok.”

56
“I know.”

Ortega nodded thoughtfully.

A covert mission that’s maximum priority as well. - Ortega repeated in his head while
contemplating the map for the millionth time.
Damn it.

The fact was that, in his head, Ortega had studied the route from the LZ to their
objective plenty of times already. He had been through it beforehand and had already
decided that it was feasible.
Even the highly-volatile location where the target-huts were situated looked doable,
almost from the start.
He could imagine where they would land, what route they would follow to cut
through the jungle, and how long it would take them to get to the objective from
there. It was all feasible. The mission wasn’t impossible.
He could have started planning it right away if he had wanted to.
The real problem was cover. If they got captured in North Vietnam and finished on
the cover of TIMES Magazine on an unauthorized operation, God only knew what
would happen to them, not to mention Trautman.

Jesus Christ – Ortega repeated to himself.

“Now, let's talk about the secondary objective for a second,” said Trautman.
“According to Intelligence, the Frenchman will be sleeping here, in the officers hut
along with Yin.”
“He is a civilian to all effects, isn't he?”
“Worse. He is a former French Secret Services officer. Lucky for us, the slug-eaters
are now repudiating him because of his 'independent' business affairs. And so, after
your team takes care of him, there won't be any international consequences. Then of
course, considering that he’s a French civilian, his murder is very likely to make it on
the cover of TIMES Magazine in any case. But the French government won't care,
and that's what really matters.”
“Yet, this murder will influence public opinion just the same.”
“And that's another reason you can’t blow your cover under any circumstances. US
involvement will be obvious, but there won't be any proof.”
“Clear.”
“Good.”
“And so there really aren't alternatives to this mission. Correct, Sir?”
“No, not even one. I need another Black Op, Baker Team. Just like the good old days:
Russian weapons, no dog tags, etcetera. The standard procedure. And while you’re
there, you can make a clean sweep of any other opportune targets you may find along
the way: Colonels, Officers, whoever. Those fucking coordinates will be jampacked

57
full of fucking targets. And that's precisely the reason why we’re calling this mission
'viper's nest', if you take it that is.”

“Nice name,” said Ortega. He let himself grin.

“You mouth is watering already isn't it, Colonel?”

“The VC made a terrible mistake Ortega. They put too many people in the same place
at the same time. So yes, my mouth is watering indeed.”

Ortega went quiet.

His smile disappeared.

“What’s the matter?” asked Trautman.

“Because it’s a sterilized mission? No. Not exactly.”

“This is your last call. We’ve talked about it enough and the rest is up to you. You can
say yes or no, and that’s more than enough.”

Ortega took a deep breath before answering.

He trusted Trautman. He trusted Trautman unequivocally because he had never

betrayed him or let him down, not even once. This was true for every Damn mission
they’d done, even though not everything depended entirely on the Colonel .
There were always other factors that influenced the game, factors that not even the
Colonel had any power over, and they all went by the same name.
They were called risks.
And that mission was going to be chock-full of them, of course. The same way the
others were, as well.

One last effort – thought Ortega.

At the end of the day, that was, for all intents and purposes, a 'top off 'closure for the
Baker Team. It was going to be unequivocally, and without doubt or exception, their
last staggering 'jackpot'. There was only the problem of sterilization and maximum
priority in the meantime, but those would only be a problem if the mission turned out
to be a hard one, and on paper it didn't look like it would. There didn’t seem to be too
much distance to cover and the terrain didn't look all that complex. With terrain that
easy over such a short distance, they could move a lot slower than usual, and taking it
slow almost guaranteed invisibility when you were in the jungle.
Marching at a slow pace also meant that the odds of making a mistake were
practically close to zero. That helped explain why Ortega made the decision he did.

“Okay,” he said with a nod.

58
“The mission is doable, Sir. We can do it. Baker Team’s in.”

“Excellent,” Trautman exclaimed.

“A B52 will drop you on the other side of the border from a high altitude, at which
point you’ll have seventy two hours at your disposal to reach and acquire your
target.”
“Yessir,” said Ortega.
“Fine. Now let's start going over some of the details together.”

59
There were six days to go before the meeting between Yin and the Frenchman was
scheduled to take place and so for once, the Baker Team (excluding Rambo, who was
still in Saigon) had time at their disposal. They could get ready in advance for what
would probably be their last sterilized mission. Not to mention that it was probably
their last mission ever.

So, they jumped at the opportunity to get things underway by showing a lot more zeal
than they generally did. This included preparing their 'setups' (their personal item
configurations) well in advance - for a change - and testing them too.
With all this time on their hands, the Baker Team could test and retest some basic
movement schemes as well.

Truth be told, that stuff never changed. Taking over from the point man, falling back
in front of an engagement, rallying the team before sending explorers forward to
reconnaissance, had all become second nature by then. They’d been using the exact
same schemes in the jungle too. Ortega always gave the order to test and retest it all
anyway, multiple times. Every time they did, they were humble as they did it, which
was the only and right way to go about it. They always double-checked because often
it was what you took for granted that fucked you up outright. Especially when you
were at war. As a result, on that day, Danforth, Ortega and everybody else went over
everything till they were blue in the face.

“Almost three years worth of missions – began Danforth – and here we are still
testing the same fucking things over and over again.”
“And we'll do the same thing for the next mission too, Eagle” retorted Ortega.

Danforth turned to Ortega, giving him an incredibly dirty look

while Ortega, on the other hand, gave him his slyest of smiles.

“How many missions have we run together Manuel? Twenty? Twenty-five?”

“More or less. And I always learnt something new from every single one of them,
Joseph. From the first to the last. Let them work.”
“You’re so boring, man. Excruciatingly boring.”

60
That's okay, come on – Danforth thought to himself - one last effort.
Given the circumstances, he realized that it might have been their last mission as
well.
Considering the Fifth Special Forces were going to be pulled out of Vietnam in about
six months, that would be their last covert mission for sure. Danforth had been a
member of the SOG for such a long time, he could hardly even remember what being
a Fifth Special Forces member was really like. Technically speaking, he and the
others had always been part of it, and still were. In lay terms, they were just Green
Berets like the others, and that was what they would go back to being soon.
Leaving Vietnam that way, and abandoning everyone and everything to fate (like they
still weren’t in deep trouble after seven, very long years) sucked of course. It was
really shitty.
South Vietnam was still in deep trouble, and how!
But after getting to the point they were at, neither he, Ortega nor Trautman could do
anything about it any longer. No one in the world could do anything about it now.

But we did the most – Danforth thought to himself and this cheered him up.

We couldn't win this fucking war on our own, but we have done the best we could,
given the circumstances anyway. We sure did.
We’re the Goddamn Baker Team, for fucks' sake.
And being part of this legend has been awesome..

61
Saigon

62
They were at the Continental Hotel and the sun was beaming through their hotel
room window, despite the curtains being drawn.
Rambo was making love to Layla for the second time. Only minutes after they’d
begun however, her cheeks had suddenly reddened and her smile began to slowly
wane, until it almost disappeared.

Is it really me? – Rambo asked himself. Am I really the one making her feel this
good?Seriously?

Rambo looked down at her under him, and saw how beautiful she was. Those blue
eyes, her blond hair dishevelled and scattered loosely on the white sheets. It was the
most wonderful sight Rambo had ever set eyes on.

Is this for real? - he asked himself again, still unable to believe it.

Yes, it is.
She likes me.
She seriously likes me.

But that hotel, and its foyer entrances in particular...

Make sure you memorize all the exits, Rambo. Remember the staircases, the doors,
the escape routes...
Maybe you’re missing something.
Maybe you didn't memorize everything.

What the hell was happening to him?

You’ve got a throw knife hidden in your boot, and two more push daggers on your
belt buckle.
And don't forget about the fire escape right outside this window: there’s absolutely no
way you'll ever use the stairs to escape if you get attacked.

But why would anyone attack?

And who would?

Layla caressed Rambo's face and turned it back towards her.

63
“Hey,” she said in a whisper.
“What's going on?”
“Nothing.”

Layla – while making love - wanted his thoughts to be solely on her, but that was
something he just couldn't do. He had never been able to do it.
He couldn’t count how many times, in matters of life or death had his life depended
on not letting himself go, not for any reason and regardless of the situation he was in.
So, needless to say, he couldn't let himself go with her either, but the problem was she
was noticing it. Goddamn it.

She can tell – thought Rambo to himself.

She can tell I’m distracted.

Just let go John.

Just let it all go.

But if they attack...Nobody’s going to attack anyone. There’s absolutely no reason to

think that. Quit it.

Rambo turned to look at Layla once more, and feeling his eyes on her she became
calm unexpectedly.

It was over.
He’d got through it.
Rambo had actually looked believable. Only then did Rambo realize this was all real,
despite all the issues he was facing.

The thing between Layla and himself was real. Not only was she beautiful, but she
truly wanted him too, and in all senses, and gladly even. That was probably the one
thing breaking his heart the most: the fact that making love to that woman was a
source of joy for him as well.
It was as though she had nothing in the world to worry about, and that was in itself
completely inconceivable for someone like him.Layla seemed to be completely void
of second thoughts, the need to scheme or concerns regarding potential consequences.

I’ll never get used to any of this – thought Rambo.

Not in a million years.

Rambo closed his eyes and Layla held him even tighter.That’s when Rambo was
finally able to do it.

64
He forgot about all the weapons he had in that room, all the escape routes and what
he would have done had anyone broken in and he’d had to fight there, in that room.
Rambo forgot it all, essentially losing himself in what he felt inside. He was lost in
the scent of her hair, the sound of her breathing under him, in the warmth of her body
and in the physical pleasure that she gave him as they made love.
Those were all things that Rambo had never thought he could even feel until that very
moment.

65
Right after they had finished making love Layla was still short breath when Rambo
hugged her.

She liked that John guy very much.

He was handsome, as young as she was, and he didn’t seem to have any other secrets
besides the ones about his Special Force job of course. She didn’t really care a lot
about those secrets anyway.
Pretty much everybody’s life was at risk, over there.
Everybody used to disappear for long periods of time and say they were going 'on a
mission', and in Vietnam, everybody had secrets, so she accepted it. Nevertheless,
that John guy was different from anybody else she’d met.

John was a straightforward kind of person with no hidden sides, and that was why she
was sure he would never have betrayed her. In the case they ever actually decided to
stay together, that is. That was something Layla felt absolutely certain about. John
was the kind of guy whose honour had no limit, and maybe that intimidated her a bit.
The world was such an unfair place and having a sense of honour like his could prove
to be very dangerous at times. Particularly in a place like Vietnam. Rambo would
have died a hundred times over rather than do her wrong, and that kind of gift wasn’t
so run-of-the-mill among US Soldiers. A gift that was even more difficult to find in a
place like Vietnam where men always, and without exception, inevitably became
animals, and she just couldn’t understand the reason for it.
God only knew why, but in that country almost every Soldier eventually lost his head.
Once they did, they let themselves do the sort of things that they would never have
done back home. It was as though technically speaking, Vietnam wasn't part of ‘the
real world', and that was exactly how most of them explained it.That’s probably why
everybody used to say that about Vietnam too. John on the other hand...

John wasn't like that one bit.Not to say he was perfect either. No, she wasn't saying
that at all.
Something wasn’t right with him though, and this was especially true when they were
together.
There was something hidden, deep inside.

There didn’t seem to be joy in him when they hugged each other for instance, or love
for that matter. At least not the kind of love she was used to receiving or looked for in
a man. Simple things like being carefree, sweet, or unburdened.
Rambo was neither light-hearted nor a free spirit. He was none of those things at all.

66
Layla had only known him a few days but this little she knew already: Rambo was
completely incapable of joking around or being playful. That sort of things didn’t
even cross his mindLayla on the other hand adored being playful, almost to a fault,
and although John had a lot of things going for him being playful was definitely not
one of them.
Truth be told, it was the complete opposite.
There seemed to be desperation inside of him. Yeah, that’s it.
When he hugged her he held on to her so tight in case she drifted away or something.
That sort of scared Layla a little too, she had to admit.

The girl caressed Rambo's forehead, and then gently ran her fingers through his hair.

He was a really good-looking guy. She liked his mouth, the way it was kind of
crooked – and especially when he rose his voice a little – whether it was to call a cab
or order something in a busy bar – he always seemed to look good in any case.

Layla looked him right in the eyes, but she saw darkness and abyss in those eyes.
A real bottomless hole that almost gave her the chills. With that realization, she came
to understand something fundamental about Rambo.

Layla now understood to be the only, true light in that unfathomable, never-ending
darkness, hidden deep inside of him.
Rambo wasn’t a bad person, quite the contrary.
There was no denying that abyss however, even if it was painstakingly hidden, and
she was the only real source of light at such a depth.
The only source of light in his entire life.

You’re a desperate man, John Rambo – thought Layla.

And I could even love you. It's just that...
It's just that I’m not sure.

I’m not sure this is what I’m really looking for.

67
 The Dak-To Base,

Three A.M., after a long night of drinking, despite the promise Rambo had made to
himself (years earlier) to abstain.

68
“They say... They say I’m not normal, Manuel.”

“Who would say that, Rambo?

Civilians?
None of them could ever understand the kind of life we lead, John.
What we do, why we do it...”

“I’m doing my best, Manuel, but it's so hard.”

“Fuck it, John. Just love her. Just go ahead and love her, and you'll see everything
work itself out.
Have a child with her.
When you have a child in the world it can make things meaningful sometimes.
Seriously.
That's the way it was for me with Helen, when Michael was born.
Trust me.
You can still get out of it, John. It isn't too late, just look at me.
I did.”

“A family? Me? Are you crazy?

It's too late for that.”

“Quit it, John. Just let yourself go, Jesus.

She’s the 'right' one for you, period.
I saw you throw yourself in front of a machine gun and be less afraid than now.
Fucking jump, will you?
Let yourself go Dammit.”

“It’s not that easy, Manuel.”

“Yes, it is. Everybody finds the right one, sooner or later, and you’re not that different
from the rest of us. Don’t worry about what they think back home.
None of us have stones heart.
And neither do you.”

“I... I just want to be normal.”

“Just give it a rest John.”

69
“I want to be an average person, Manuel.

But I have to be it now,

before it's too late”

John Rambo, 1971

70
That night, Ortega finished loading the rucksack that he had begun to pack days
earlier. He was finally okay with his personal setup for the mission in question.
It had been a long time since their last 'sterilized' mission, but not long enough to lose
the hang of it. Yes, he still remembered how to play that kind of game, and he
remembered it well. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Ortega glanced down at what
he’d left on the tent floor, scattered and in a state of confusion. Whatever wasn’t
already in the rucksack he would carry on on his person the day they departed.

His Baker knife, tightly wrapped in its sheath.

His personal AK47, all scratched up and worn out, still as reliable as ever despite the
countless covert missions he’d completed by then.
Ten magazines, fifteen hand grenades, his browning hi-power, and that was just the
gear he’d wear at take-off. As for the rucksack and the pockets on his uniform, he’d
carry the Soviet-made compass, two maps (one was backup) water, food, and some
extra clothing in case the temperature dropped.
In short, and as always, the rucksack held the bulk of the weight.
Ortega looked over the checklist he’d written days before, and when he was sure that
everything had been checked off accordingly, he stood there motionless a moment
longer, and memorized the position of every item he’d packed.
Considering all the stuff he had on him, and that his personal-equipment setup
changed for every single mission, it wouldn't be the first time he’d forgot where he’d
put something, even if he’d been the one to pack it.
Only once done that last, methodical revision was he finally satisfied.

The following day Ortega planned on doing a test-run and he’d be fully equipped as
he did it. He’d have all the time he needed to make any adjustments in the days that
followed if he deemed any were necessary.
Having so much time at his disposal ahead of time was awesome.
Every mission was unique and even if two or three setups were versatile enough to
cover practically any typology of mission more or less, some smaller, personalized
corrections were always required because no two missions were ever exactly the
same. He had learned that it was those minor differences which could make the
difference between life and death.

Ortega put his rucksack on.

He reflected on the weight for a second, just to give it a try.
The belts were set fine. The load – which felt well distributed – was more than

71
acceptable considering that mission wasn’t supposed to be a long one.

Ortega swung the rucksack off his back and put it back on the ground next to his rifle
where it had been before.
Then, he walked towards the tent entrance, pushed aside the flap and finally left the
hut for some fresh air.

It was almost twilight.

Ortega crossed the village square, greeted the Montagnard who was wearing nothing
but his classic tribal loin cloth with a salute, and walked towards the big tent which
was where the rest of the team was staying. Everybody except for Coletta, who was
staying in his wife's hut.

There was so much stuff on the floor where his team was staying, that there was
barely enough space to move around. At Ortega’s feet there was a row of AK rifles,
Baker knives, two Mark II daggers, countless magazines for both pistols and the AKs,
hand grenades, compasses, maps, ready to eat military rations, spare clothes,
discarded clothes, flashlights, batteries and, of course, bullets of various calibres
scattered all over the place.
Danforth was smoking and lost in his thoughts, Bronson was loading bullets into a
magazine and Coletta was cleaning his night vision device with a piece of cloth.
When Westmore saw Ortega come in he looked over at him.

“Everything's fine here, boss.”

“All right,”

But this time it's scarier – thought Ortega.

When you know it might be the last mission you’ll ever do, it feels a little scarier
I guess. But why?

In Vietnam that was common knowledge. Everybody knew that’s what happened.
Nobody knew exactly why, but that terrorizing feeling you got just thinking about
your last mission was no secret.
Ortega never really believed it existed until then. but there it was for real.
Fuck him was it ever.

“Hey boss, can I talk to you for a second?” asked Coletta.

“Sure Ric.”
“Let's take a walk.”

72
It was still dark.
The two men went outside, in the open air.

73
Ortega lit a cigarette with his zippo as they walked.

“Is Rambo back?” he said.

“No, he’s spending the night in Saigon.”
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not in the least. On the contrary, he hooked up with a girl.”
“What?”
“You know him: he never comes unstitched about himself. But if you ask me, he's got
it bad.”
“Jesus. If somebody like Rambo settles down then we really are over the hill.”

Coletta didn't think that was funny however.

Ortega took another drag off his cigarette, and said:

“Less than six months, Ricardo. Worst case scenario, maybe one more mission after
this one, max, but that’s only if luck’s against us. After that we’re goin’ home.”
“Yup,” replied Coletta.
“That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about boss. The VCs have started to keep
tabs on our village again.”
“Fuck, Sniper... You've started going for your little lone trips again, haven’t you?
What the fuck...”

Coletta began to feel concerned.

“I never stopped, boss. My wife lives here.”

“Yeah sure, I know.”

Ortega took another drag and reflected quietly.

Then he said:

“I thought that after last year's blow they’d have given that shit up.”
“So did I.”
“Then you made the right call when you disobeyed orders.”
“I know I did.”

74
Ortega looked down, just thinking.

“You’re sure about that, of course. Aren't you?”

“One hundred percent certain.”
“Shit. Maybe you even know who’s leading them?”
“Yes, I do.”

Ortega took another drag.

“Is he dangerous?”
“Not excessively, but enough.”
“All right. You know what then? When we get back from the mission we’ll have one
more throat to slit. That way, we won't have to think about it any longer.”
“Thanks, boss.”

Ortega waved his cigarette around in the air, acting like he was bored or something.

“They’ve got a lot of nerve those fucking VCs. I thought that the first and last time
they tried to kick our asses but lost would have been enough for them.”
“They’ll keep trying anyway boss, and probably soon too I bet. Once they find out
we’re going to leave soon, they’ll be even more set on doing it. And we’ve got
another problem too, boss. A big one.”
“Another one?”

Coletta nodded.

“Shoot,” said Ortega.

“I can't bring my wife to the U.S.”
“What?! Why not?”
“Trautman is trying any way he can think of, but there's nothing he can do about it.
There’s a lot of bureaucracy involved and there just isn’t enough time. We'll end up
leaving before she can.”
“Shit.”
“And she wouldn't be enough on her own. I’ve got to find a way to take her sister and
his nephews away as well.”
“What about her old man?”
“No way. He’s too old. He’d never leave the family graves. Whatever happens, he’s
decided to die here already.”
“Christ.”
“It's his choice. He has the right to make it.”
“I guess he has. Christ.”

Ortega took a few more drags.

75
Then he said:

“You should have talked to me about all of this before we were given this mission,
you prick.”
“I know. The fact is that we only got married in a tribal ritual.”
“Well then bring her to Saigon with you and have a Catholic wedding or whatever.
What's the big deal?”
“We have to get this mission done first.”
“Of course, but Jesus Christ, Coletta. What were you thinking? What if we don't
come back from this mission?”
“Then you’ll have to think about that yourself, Ortega. Not Rambo, not Bronson and
certainly not Danforth either. I want you. If there's any real fix for this mess of a
world, the only one who can find it is you.”
“We might not come back from this mission. Maybe no one will. As always...”
“If that’s the case, my wife and her family would be fucked.”
“Yeah, they would.”
“No, okay, listen Ric: Trautman 'the beast' will take care of it. The Colonel won't let
anything happen to your family, you'll see. I know he has a lot to think about already,
but if something happens to you, he won't forget about them. Didn’t you see how he
took care of Krakauer's daughter when he died? And she was just his adoptive
daughter, don’t you remember? Krack had just 'bought' her to save her from ending
up in a brothel and nothing else. Yet Trautman took care of her anyway. I’m sure he’ll
figure something out this time too. I think you’re worrying about nothing.”

Coletta nodded, although clearly unconvinced, just stared into the dark horizon.

“Don't worry,” added Ortega, and then said:

“The Baker Team is a family. That's the reason Trautman took care of Krakauer's
daughter because it's as though we’re one big family.”
“That's probably the reason,” said Coletta, although still having doubts.

The two stared into the night for a little longer, in silence.
Then Coletta shook his head.

“Everything's going wrong, boss, about the war I mean. I heard someone say that
three days ago that an entire company of Marines refused to fight.”
“It's true, and it wasn't the first time that something like that has happened either.”
“But we’re talking about Marines boss, not reservists.”
“Marines are Marines, and we got to know them very well while we were on
Mountain Hunt. They range from blood-thirsty beasts to the crazy-ass infants that
barely made it throughout boot camp. That's the way this war is going now Coletta,
and there's nothing in the world me, you, Trautman or the Baker Team can possibly
do to prevent it. Trautman has been trying to change things for years and the only

76
thing he got out of it was that everybody hates him and will do anything to screw his
career up. He should be a General by now, but the better his results got, the more they
hated him. And if he continues to play it like this, he might end up being a Colonel
for life.”
“Yes...”
“We have to think on the bright side. Like the ARVN, for instance.
The ARVN is making huge strides, God damn' it. They were the ones who saved our
asses at the end of Mountain Hunt, weren't they?”

Coletta smiled

“Absolutely.”
“And if the ARVN starts working, then the fucking rest of Vietnam will start working
fine too. Trust me. No one wants the fucking communists to win here, not really. The
ARVN might just turn this fucking war around.”
“Maybe boss but right now I’m worried about the village, and I’m worried as hell.
I’m so scared about a possible US troop withdrawal that I’m considering a discharge
and staying as a civilian instead.”
“Jesus Christ, Ricardo...”

Ortega turned to face Coletta and looked him right in the eyes, but Coletta just stared
into the horizon.

“Are you serious?” asked Ortega.

Coletta nodded without looking at him.

“Don't do it Ricardo. It makes no sense. Let's say, as absurd as it might sound, that
South Vietnam ends up falling.”

Coletta turned towards Ortega.

“It isn't as far-fetched as you think Rick. What could you possibly do if South
Vietnam falls? Would you wait for the whole North Vietnamese army to come along,
stand there with your M14 and a handful of Montagnards at your side?”
“Oh, come on, you idiot...”
“No man, the best thing you could do is convince Trautman to get as many visas for
the US as he can. And this is something you can do now by legally marrying your
woman, and without having to wait for anything else.”

Coletta lowered his head.

Ortega went on to say:

“Okay, listen.... When we’re back from this mission I'll convince Trautman to get all

77
the necessary visas for your wife and everyone else too, okay? Let's say four people
at first. I’ll get them. I will handle it personally.”

Coletta put one hand on Ortega's shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re a true friend, Ortega.
“Don't even say it. We’re brothers in arms, Ricardo.”

And then he added smiling:

“But this whole marriage thing has gone to your head, I guess. We’re coming back
from this mission just like any other time. Then, once this fucking tour is over you
and your wife will come and live in the US at the first sign of any trouble.
And then okay: Trautman will never be able to get a visa for the entire fucking
village... But he’s going to get as many as possible for sure, so your wife will have to
live with that. That's the way this world goes.”

This time Ortega was the one to turn away and stare at nothing.

“The others will probably have to find a way to flee to Thailand on their own, or in
Cambodia, or God knows where if Saigon ever falls. No one can save the world on
his own, Ric.”

Ortega took another drag off his cigarette, then snorted.

“Anyway, South will never fall. Right?”

“Absolutely,” nodded Coletta.
“Are you alright, now?”

Coletta nodded.

“Then go to sleep. And the night before we leave, don't fuck your wife for Christ's
sake, okay?
Otherwise you’ll show up all relaxed and angel-like and I have no fucking use for
anyone who’s all relaxed and angelical as a selected sharpshooter.”

Coletta smiled as the two men finally stood up to leave.

“I need you blood-thirsty for this mission. Okay?”

“As always, Skorpio.”

78
 Messner

The Following Day

In Saigon

79
A little before Mountain Hunt had begun, Messner and Linda had exchanged letters
for the first time in years. Now, the day of the truth had finally arrived.

As per usual, but particularly that day, the public phones room at the Embassy in
Saigon was fraught with chaos. When it was finally his turn to make his call, Messner
picked up the receiver but noticed his hand was shaking.

Seriously shaking.

This was all because after three long years, he was finally about to talk to Linda after
such a long time. That’s when Messner understood a few things about himself.

For some reason, albeit unjustified considering the kind of job he did, Messner didn't
have half the courage he needed to make that call. At least not after three years of
communicating only via mail, and especially after not receiving a single reply in
return. That explained why his hand was shaking Goddamn it.

Despite all the battles I’ve fought, all the risks I've taken and the number of people
I’ve killed, why could calling my x-girlfriend make my hands shake?

Whatever it was, however he certainly wasn't dreaming it.

No, it’s real – he thought staring at his shaking hand.

Quite the contrary.

It was really happening. Then, as he stood pointlessly temporizing in front of the

receiver, it hit him, and when he realized that simple truth it hit him like a slap in the
face.

Oh come on! Fuck!

Messner cleared his throat and picked the receiver up again.

Three years – he thought to himself.
Almost three years spent risking my own life like a madman, and I spent the whole
time thinking about her. He had always found consolation in the memory of her.

80
That explained why sex wasn’t as good after Linda either. Not even sex with Sui La,
made him feel any better, but now they weren’t dating anymore. It had never been the
same way after Linda.
Messner hung up the receiver again, this time without even dialling the number.

I can't do it – he thought.
Don't bullshit yourself – he immediately retorted to himself.

Three years. How many people had he killed in that time span? How about the entire
time he’d been there?

A lot.
Sometimes the right ones, sometimes the wrong ones too.
And sometimes, we killed people without even knowing if they were the former or the
latter.
But never without a reason.
Never without having Trautman spend many sleepless nights before giving them the
order to do it. That was the difference between them and everybody else.

Messner, who was holding the receiver in mid-air, like the pathetic asshole he was,
did some reflecting that afternoon about this and a thousand other things. and it was
all driving him crazy. At the end of the day, his life had become a kind of science
fiction film in a world that didn't really exist. He was living in a full-blown, parallel
reality, said and did crazy things on a regular basis the way a madman would. He had
finally become what Rambo, Ortega and the rest of them had been for some
time.Rambo and Ortega were friends of his, and Messner had grown very fond of
them, even if they were nutters, nonetheless. What’s more, Ortega was their team
leader too, Holy shit.

Sheer madness.

Daniel 'The Doc' Messner on the other hand, had gotten himself into that mess
because of a 'woman'. Yes, you read right. Because of Linda. It was all because he
had to end a relationship he was having with a married woman, a few years ago, for
Christ’s sake. Like it was humanly possible or something.

Dial the fucking number already – he said impatiently to himself.

Just do it.

Make yourself do it.

Just do what you do when you’re on a mission for God’s sake and make the switch.
After all, you’ve been doing it for years, so make the switch here if you have to as
well.

81
Messner picked up the receiver back up and finally started to dial the number.
Then, as he was waiting for the exchange to take the line he took a deep breath.

It's just a switch.

Use it.

He felt his heart beat faster suddenly, pumping hard his chest and he came to.
He had finally calmed himself down, and he had done so without having to use his
training.

“Yes?” a woman's voice said on the other side of the receiver. It was actually her.

Her voice sounded exactly as he remembered it. It certainly was beautiful.

Even her voice was wonderful for God’s sake.

A short, awkward dialogue followed. Short and awkward for the both of them.

Linda had her own issues about talking to him after such a long time as well. She was
sorry for not having answered any of his letters and tried to make it clear that she had
always cared and valued his friendship nevertheless, she was however a married
woman by then.

Messner told her that he understood perfectly and didn't care in the least. He then told
her that in six months more or less he was going back to the US, and he was almost
sure about it.

When she replied, she admitted it would be nice if they saw each other once he got
back since she was finally living on her own. They could do more than just talk and
were free to meet if they wanted too. At least meet to say hi.If that’s what he truly
wanted, of course.
Just like that, like they were long lost friends or something. At least to see one
another after such a long time.

Messner didn’t say anything for a second. He was trying to act as refined as it was
humanly possible, and explained that he had to think about it first. With little or no
delay however, he agreed, told her that he would have stayed in touch afterwards.

When it was time to say goodbye, even though it had all been rather formal in tone at
first they did eventually warm up to each other. Although that so-called warmth was,
in all honesty, barely noticeable, Messner noticed it nevertheless.
He was absolutely sure of it.

82
The Baker Team MD hung up the phone.

It was possible.
It was a real possibility, and he wasn’t simply imagining it. He just had to make sure
he got through these last few months alive. Done that, he’d be able to make things
work between the two of them after Vietnam. Who knows, maybe the two of them
could even get back together in the end.
Yes...
Maybe this time it really was possible.

The only problem now was him.

The problem was how much he had changed during those last two years not to
mention how well he would handle the situation when the time came.

He never should have come to Vietnam. It had all been one big mistake.
Joining the Army and moving on to Secret Service had been a mistake for sure. Quite
arguably the worst he’d ever made. That simple, almost banal truth hit him like a
sledgehammer once he’d hung the receiver back up.

He should never have come to Vietnam for the simple reason that he wasn’t the old
Daniel Messner any more. Not at all. He had become something entirely different.
Something dark and heartless, even capable of opening fire on civilians in some far-
off village as long as the mission objective had a 'high enough' priority'.

It’ll never work between the two of us. It’ll be your fault too because you’re the one
who isn’t going to work. You’ll go crazy once you’re back in the US, Daniel Messner.
You’ll go crazy just like all the other crazy motherfuckers do after they leave the
Special Forces. You’ll end up robbing banks, become a hired killer, mercenary or
something along that line.
Yes. That’s the way you’ll end up too.

No – he contested to himself.
No…

I’ll find a way to get out of this – he repeated to himself.

And I’ll do it for Linda’s sake, not for mine.I’ll figure it out, for fuck's sake.
I don't care how or when, and even if it turns out to be the hardest thing I ever do. I'm
gonna’ figure out how to do it and that’s it. You bet I will.

“Sir?” said a voice.

“Sir, other people need the phone too. Could you come out of there please?”

Messner turned around and the young Soldier who was standing in line behind him

83
was now directly in front of him. The young man wasn’t making eye contact with
Messner, but looked around elsewhere.
He had a somewhat embarrassed manner as Messner walked out of the phone booth
and he paid no heed to his comment, then left.

Now, he was on a new mission.

Unlike the others, this time his mission was personal.
Not for Command, not for his team and not in the name of fucking Vietnam either.
No.
This time all he had to do was finding a way to survive and get back to Linda.

84
PART TWO

85
THE MISSION

86
“FIVE MINUTES,” the Huey pilot shouted out over the roar of the engine, over the
machine gun Bronson was shooting and the rest of the team who was screaming.
“OVER THERE, BRONSON!” shouted Westmore.
“Jesus Christ, I'm gonna’ puke,” moaned Berry.
“ 'Demilitarized zone' my ass,” screamed Messner.
“This mission’s gonna’ fail before it even starts!”
“No! That’s not gonna’ happen!” Ortega shouted back in a firm voice that helped
calm them all down, even if it was just for a moment.
Then he added:
“Now, shut the fuck up! All of you.”
“Movement!” Rambo asserted as he pointed out the direction of the source.

There were three Hueys up in the air and hovering together in an L-shaped formation
and Baker Team was in the middle. Rambo was giving out instructions as he pointed
towards the valley in front of them.

“Movement at two, three and five o'clock. We’ve got movement everywhere!”
“This isn't good,” Ortega whispered almost to himself.
“This isn't good at all. Give me the map, Doc.”
“Here.”

Once the pilot had the enemy in sight, and with only seconds to consider their
position, he began evasion manoeuvres almost immediately. The chopper followed
along the hills' and flew as low as possible.

“I feel sick,” said Berry.

Messner smiled.

The two choppers on either side of them made their way along the hill plane as well.
They were zig-zagging back and forth to steer clear of the green tracers that were
currently pursuing them from the jungle. There was an anti-air machine gun shooting
round after round and they were seriously under fire,

“What the fuck are we gonna’ do if they open fire on the LZ too?” Danforth asked
Ortega.
“Should we change the LZ or are we going to town for a fight now?”
“We’re not doing either!” Ortega shouted back.

87
“We’re gonna’ land and lose them! Am I clear, Baker Team?”

Everyone on the team nodded back in accord but despite Ortega's conviction, it
looked like the mission was going to fail before it had even started.

“This is a maximum priority mission, Goddamn it!”When he heard that, the pilot
turned around momentarily, like he wanted to make sure he had heard right.
-

Jesus Christ – the pilot thought to himself.

They’re serious.

Rambo looked straight at Ortega, but didn't say anything.

“FOUR MINUTES,” they heard the pilot shout out.

Coletta kissed the photo he was holding of his wife.

Messner patted his gear one pocket at time and double-checked all his equipment in
his head.

Berry was doing breathing exercises to stave off being sick. It was the same
technique astronauts used when they thought they were going to puke inside their
space suits. Lucky for everyone, it seemed to be working.

Westmore tapped his foot frantically as he tried, albeit in vain, to relieve stress.

Bronson opened fire with his M60 using both hands and moving up and down
continuously. One of the two support choppers was following them closely, flying
only meters away.

Danforth turned around and pointed at the entire team.

“I want a nice, clean dispersal this time. If something goes wrong and they’re waiting
for us, everyone will get to the really point on his own. And please, try doing so
without bringing the whole North Vietnamese Army along with yourselves. Okay?”

Everyone nodded except for Ortega, who continued to analyse the map and ignored
them all.
Rambo knew exactly what Ortega was doing. He was working out a potential Plan B,
to carry out the mission 'anyway'.If it hadn't been a maximum priority mission, the

88
Baker Team would have aborted long before.

“Rally Point number three,” shouted Ortega, confirming Rambo’s thoughts in the
process.

Ortega had changed his mind again.

Everyone except for Rambo got out their map to check rally point three. He was the
only one who had already learnt the secondary rally points by heart.

“If it was up to me,” Ortega began.

“I would still go for rally point number one, but considering how the situation is
evolving we’ll go for rally point number three even if it's our third choice. Okay,
Baker Team?”

No one had anything to say. With that, it was done. It had been decided. It would be
LZ number 3 then.
The worst possible option.
It was the one that would have misled the Vietcong from the Baker Team's true
objective the most. It was also the one furthest from where they had to march to.
Ortega put his map back inside its pocket and Rambo considered that to be a good
sign.
It meant that as far as his team leader was concerned, there weren’t going to be any
more changes made to the plan.

“Danforth, give me a direction from rally point three on. I need to talk to the pilot for
a second.”

“Better than a roller coaster,” Westmore smiled.

Delmore scowled at him.

Delmore wasn't in the mood for jokes at the moment. He was on the verge of really
being sick despite doing the breathing techniques. If he puked all over himself, it
meant doing the whole mission reeking of vomit. Just the idea made him even more
nauseous as he tried to stomach the chopper zipping around all over the place.

“THREE MINUTES,” shouted the pilot.

“Spring clips!” Danforth yelled out.

We’re gonna’ land while they’re still shooting at us – thought Rambo.

The pilot passed a headset back to Ortega, who didn't intend to actually put it on. He
just put it up against one ear before talking directly into the microphone. He had the
command post on the line because it was time to update them on the situation, and
what was going on.

89
 -

Danforth was listening to Ortega as he coordinated the Baker Team landing with the
two other Fifth Special Forces team landings. They were the teams currently flying
next to them. The plan was to play all three cards against the VC. The primary
objective of both other teams was just one of distraction.

Ortega gave the headphones back to the pilot.

There it is – Ortega thought to himself.

Now we’re in the game for good.

“ONE MINUTE,” shouted the pilot.

Prior to landing, the helicopter covered the last distance at cruising speed before it
unexpectedly and abruptly slowed down. That’s when they all heard the boom come
from outside, making the entire team look to their right.

90
91
One of the two Hueys flying next to them was engulfed in a cloud of black smoke.

Fucking hit – thought Ortega.

There were flames coming out of the chopper’s left door and it was flying unsteadily.
Sure, it was still moving forward, but that was just a consequence. Then, a Soldier
jumped out through the flames, falling into the void. An absolute and certain death
considering the height.

He’d rather jump than burn to death - thought Ortega.

And then it came to him.

It sure did.

Tim Brady, RT Dakota.

“THIRTY SECONDS,” shouted the pilot like nothing had even happened.

Ortega looked straight ahead once more.

Nothing was going to distract him.
Not even Tim's death.

“Thirty seconds,” the pilot repeated to them, more quietly this time, almost in a
whisper, like he was saying it to himself.

Still in flames, the Huey flying at their side lifted upwards one last time but for no
apparent reason. Then, like a dolphin out of the water, it slowly began to descend
downwards toward the jungle.

Rambo became suddenly overwhelmed by flashbacks.

The memory of Black Spot of course, the time when he was the one in the chopper
that was about to crash.
That horrible memory came back to him, moving as straight as a rocket from his
stomach all the way up to his throat Seeing Tim die that way made him feel like

92
Black Spot all over again despite it happening more than two years ago.

Jorgenson – he recalled.

Rambo saw his arm stretched out for Jorgenson to take hold of (but in absolute vain)
as the helicopter plummeted down to, what seemed at the time, a certain death.

Rambo knew a few other RT Dakota guys, but if he really wanted to know who was
on board and who wasn't, he knew he’d have to wait until the mission was over. It felt
like a lifetime already.

I need to focus on the mission – he said to himself, despite feeling so uneasy because
he knew so many of those guys personally. After all, no matter what Rambo wanted
to believe h
e was human, nonetheless.

What's happening to me? - Rambo thought clenching his jaw and looking down.

You’re just getting old – answered a voice inside his head.

The more time passes, the more you fear death: everybody knows that. That's the way
it works.
That's why only the young should go to war.

“FIFTEEN SECONDS!” the pilot shouted back at them.

Or maybe it's because of Layla – said a different voice to him. That certainly might
have been a possibility too. It certainly was.
The more your life is worth living, the more afraid you become of dying, and it didn't
take a genius to understand that.

Meanwhile, RT Dakota's Huey still hadn't crashed. The attempts it made to gain
altitude continued unsuccessfully because the blades were moving too slowly. The
main rotor was completely gone by then.
Ortega spoke suddenly, interrupting Rambo’s flashback.

“Don't look, guys,” said his team leader, but no one could take their eyes off the sight.
“It doesn’t concern you. I said, it doesn’t concern us. Don't fucking look. Just focus
on the job at hand.”

And when the Baker Team chopper finally started to slow down for landing, the Huey
at their side bellowed its last, tremendous cry and the metal giant devoured itself up.
It had crashed, finally.

93
As his feet touched the ground, Rambo pointed his AK out in front of him, and
scanned the jungle surrounding them.
A moment later the entire Baker Team was standing behind him, and as the helicopter
began lifting itself off the ground and take off once again.

The eight men then moved into their engagement positions since they were now in a
'hot' zone. They waited a few seconds, time enough for the Huey to leave.

“Clear!” Coletta yelled when the time had come, but he kept watch closely over the
plane by scanning its outskirts through the rifle scope of his M14.

“Johnny, Berry,” Ortega called out.

“Let's get off this fucking plane!”

94
“Head North, Baker Team. Come on!” shouted Ortega, but when he turned around to
look behind him, some of them were still loitering at the edge of the plane, staring
across at the downed helicopter.
It was like they didn't want to leave.

“I know guys,” said Ortega.

“Come on, let's move!”

Only then did the eight men finally make their way into the jungle together.

“Faster! - Ortega pressed them -. Nothing attracts VCs more than a downed
helicopter. Come on guys! Move it!”

Goddamn it – Ortega cursed under his breath.

I told Trautman that three helicopters were too many.

The team leader had a rock-hard expression on his face as he and the group moved
carefully and went deeper into the jungle. His voice was as low as a thunder and no
one dared look him in the eyes while he was giving orders about moving forward.

“Move to your right, Luis.”

“All of you, just stop right now. Let's give the head some space, will you?”

Delmore and Rambo kept turning around from time to time however to look back on
the downed Huey.

“We’re at war, Baker Team,” said Ortega.

“Let's try to focus.”

The loud and unexpected sound of far away gunshots got their attention however. The
sound a 5.56 makes, to be exact, Goddamn it. It was coming from the same direction
in which the helicopter had gone down, of course.

Oh God, please don't – Ortega thought to himself.

95
Ortega closed his eyes to swallow that bitter pill.

Someone’s still alive – was screaming his mind.

Someone’s alive, and he’s fighting off the enemy.

Coletta suddenly remerged from the jungle in front of Ortega.

“The VCs have reinforcements on the way. If we don't move fast we’re going to find
ourselves stuck in the battle for the wreckage.”
“That’s what I thought,” answered Ortega.

The he turned to face the rest of the team:

“Everybody knows what they have to do, right guys?”

They would have preferred to stay and fight, of course; and this went for all of them,
no one excluded. Not even Ortega.
It was just his role as team leader that made him different from the others however.
As a consequence, nobody uttered a word. They didn’t even have the guts to look in
Ortega's direction. So, with that, Ortega had just put the discussion to an end.

“Come on guys, let's get the fuck outta’ here,” he said finally, almost apologetically.

After marching a few minutes, the sound of shots firing became slowly more distant.
Every single shot felt like a baby crying inside Ortega's head. It was even worse than
watching a friend suffer right in front of his eyes.

Leave no man behind - affirmed a voice inside him, as he kept on walking and
hearing the shots, but that motto was what the Ranger's adhered to, not what SOG
stood for.
The SOG was above bullshit like that, wasn't it? Sure it was.
The SOG was used to running too many missions that were too fucking important to
follow romanticisms of that kind.
His eyes were watering.
Ortega wasn't crying though.
Crying on a mission like that, with the amount of adrenaline in his system like he had
at the time, would have been ridiculous.
He wasn’t hiccupping, breathing hard or anything else either. His eyes were just
burning like there was something in them.
He wasn't crying.

96
Ortega, who wore gloves without finger tips, let go of his rifle to rub his sore eyes for
a second.

Contrary to what he believed however, he was crying.

He was crying on a fucking mission, what the fuck. All his teammates were looking
straight ahead however. Lucky for him, no one would have noticed a thing.

It’s time for me to get a new job.

I’ve got to put an end to all this because I don't have the nerves for this shit any
more.

After surviving Mountain Hunt, the only thing Ortega wanted to do now was be with
Hellen and the little one.
Yes, that’s all.
Once he was home with Hellen, everything would be all right.
He just had to hold out this one last time.
Two at worst, and only if they were unlucky enough to be assigned another mission
right after that one.

Ortega wiped his cheeks again with the back of his hand, without anyone being the
wiser, and tried to pull himself together.
Then he went back to staring straight ahead too: and in the end no one had noticed
anything.

Everything's okay – he thought.

Everything's fine.

And that’s the state in which the Baker Team left the LZ and moved into the jungle.
That’s how operation 'Viper's Nest' began.

97
Three Hours Later

98
Coletta wiped his forehead.
He had been the point man for a few hours by then.
Most times he ended up at the front of the line because of his usual quick pace, while
other times he did it purposely so he could explore the terrain in complete silence.
That’s the reason he was doing it now, and the Baker Team followed at a safe
distance. On their march, the eight Baker Team members were more scattered apart
where the terrain opened up a bit more and much closer where it was thicker.
Everything was spontaneous and there was no need to say anything to any of them,
nor use any kind of hand signal either.

The jungle ascended over Coletta like a single, giant entity, both alive and pulsating.
It almost looked like it was hovering over him.

His teammates were so quiet behind him that occasionally, Coletta actually felt like
he was really on his own in there. When he did, he became so focused that he ceased
to exist singularly but actually become one with his surroundings. It felt like he was
part of the jungle.
They were moments which weren’t easy to describe for Manuel Coletta.
Horrible moments in some ways, but also wonderful at times.

At the end of the day, that was still the most dangerous place in the world and no
matter how good it felt to be there, he could never forget it.
After two years of fighting, Coletta was aware of any creature that flew, scratched
about, crawled or grew in that jungle.
Sometimes he even felt at one with the plants.
And when there was something there that didn't belong, he felt it too.

Once he got back to the US, he knew he would never have felt anything like that ever
again, and he knew he was going to miss it already. In fact, he had grown to love it by
then.
Coletta loved that jungle. No matter how many times he risked burning his fingers in
there: Coletta loved that place anyway. Most of all however, he loved it because none
of it was the jungle's fault.
War was the real problem with that place. Then, as to be expected, the magic up-and-
disappeared once more. The same way it always did.

99
“They’re North, North-East,” Coletta said, still catching his breath after having
sprinted back to his teammates as fast as he could.
“And they’re South too. They’re practically everywhere, boss.”

Ortega looked at Coletta in a confused manner.

“They may not know we’re here, but in reality, it's like we’ve been surrounded.”

Ortega shook his head.

“Fuck,” he cursed to himself. Turning to Coletta, he added:

“Just point me in the right fucking direction to take, Sniper.”
“I can give you a direction boss, but the truth is they all suck and we’ll end up
engaging in all cases. We have to come up with something.”

Ortega looked towards Danforth and gave him a nod in return.

“Okay, okay,” Ortega said looking down, and trying to think.

“Let's hide.”
“That's an option, but...” began Westmore, but Ortega brought his hand up to stop
him before he started.
Then he said:
“Be quiet for a second, Flame. Now, we’re going to hide, and whoever gets caught
won’t continue the mission. But if any one of us should end up engaging, well then I
want him to move the engagement away from the rest of us. I want it as far away
from here as possible. Is that clear? He’ll have to find a way to the objective on his
own. We’ll all meet up there.”

Rambo didn’t flinch.

Berry, Messner and Bronson, on the other hand, looked like they wanted to say
something, but then they kept quiet instead. They knew that if Ortega was giving that
kind of order, he had to have his reasons. The first one was probably the fact that he
had given it some thought already. Given the circumstances, that scenario didn’t
come as a surprise to him the way it did for the rest of them. In reality, Ortega did
always consider the worst possible scenarios, and especially the ones that would have
made him suffer just thinking about them. That day, their Intelligence had under-
estimated enemy 'traffic' in that area by a longshot, and it was too late to go back by

100
then.
They were in the game so the only thing to do now was survive.
Ortega glanced over at each teammate one last time and some of them cursed as they
exchanged glances with him. It took Coletta and Danforth a little longer to comply
than it had the others, but in the end, they nodded back too.

“Good.”

Ortega pulled his map out and reflected.

“Here it is – he said, showing it to everybody as he did - that’ll be our rally point after
this mess is over with, and if any one of you plans on engaging you’ve got to run in
the opposite direction.”
The team nodded accordingly.
“We’re all expendable today, Baker Team,” he added, putting his map away.
“We’ll plan out our next move, Sir,” replied Delmore, trying to ease the tension.
“Yes we will,” Ortega replied.
“Now let's go.”

Danforth nodded and circled his index in the air so the team scattered out accordingly

“Let's split up, Baker Team,” Ortega said whispering, almost to himself.

101
 Berry Delmore

Delmore laid on his back to slide down the slope, vanishing into the bushes below.
Once under cover, he stopped exactly where he was and didn’t move.

He glanced around quickly, and strained to hear whatever he could, the way a dog
would. He held his AK tight, right against his chest and pointed it in front of him,
outside of the bush.

Fucking Intelligence – he grumbled to himself.

Intelligence didn't make mistakes like those often, especially the units Trautman used
to work with. But this time... Jesus Christ....
This time, they had seriously messed up.
It could happen from time to time of course, just like it could happen that the Baker
Team failed a mission. It seldom happened however that intelligence miscalculated
an assessment to that extent. Sometimes it was someone's fault, and then everyone
would get pissed off like there was no tomorrow at him. Occasionally however, it
wasn’t anyone’s fault, and in cases like those, people died 'because that's the way
war works'. A little like poker, in that no matter how good a player was, there was
always the luck of the draw to contend with, and there was no way of getting around
it.From time to time something went sideways because that's just the way it had to be.
After a while however, Delmore put an end to those thoughts because all things
considered, nothing had happened which was beyond repair as of yet. None of them
had been caught. Not yet at least. So, even if they were in deep shit before the
mission had ever started, it was too soon to start freaking out just yet anyway.
He had to stay calm and wait it out.

Berry took a deep breath.

Besides, he was alive.

He was much more alive than all those poor RT Dakota devils that had just crashed
were.
And he felt even more alive than per usual. On a day like that and at such a desperate
moment, even this time Berry felt more alive on missions than he did in non-mission
moments. That was, the sacred and unavoidable truth.
As terrible as it may seem, he got more pleasure out of getting through a mission than
he got from spending time with his mother for instance, his own sons or even Sindy

102
for that matter.
There, he had finally spit it out and admitted it.
Hell, he enjoyed doing missions deemed impossible even more than making love to
Sindy.

Did that make a monster of him?

Maybe it did, but he couldn't do anything about it. That was the way it was, and that’s
all there was to it.
Given the fact that there was nothing to be done about it, he had no intention of
feeling guilty or lying to himself about how he really felt. So, he may as well just
enjoy it until the very end, especially since it was highly likely that that was going to
be their last mission for good.
Once he was back in the US, Delmore Berry would never have felt anything like that
again.

One last time and that was be it.

God willing.

Lucky for him – and for anyone else like him – that wasn't the kind of drug you could
buy in the middle of the night from a pusher in some ill-repute alley back in the US.
So, one day everything would go back to normal.

Delmore crawled forward slightly. Only a little, and only enough to get a better view
than the one he had.
He didn’t make a sound doing so, and when he finally peered further outside his
bush, he realized they were all standing there in front of him. He could see two North
Vietnamese Soldiers there, and it was almost as though they were looking specifically
for him. Thank the Lord they weren't there for him however.
Quite the contrary.
It seemed to be the other way around.
They were taking it easy.

They’re just passing by – he thought to himself, somewhat relieved, particularly

because they hadn't seen him.
Stay calm.
Don't screw everything up.

That wasn't the first time he had risked his life like that and Delmore Berry had no
problem getting back into his bush to hide.
He would just have to wait a little longer, that’s all.

No matter how sick it sounded, he loved that Damn job.

103
He loved the fact that – had he wanted to – he could have grabbed the bow off his
back, hit, and killed them both before either even noticed what was happening in the
first place. When the VCs were far enough from him, he crawled quietly from one
bush to another in the same direction as the rally point was.

104
 Joseph Danforth

Of all the group members, Danforth was the one whose choice of direction had led
him furthest away from the rally point, so his round turned out the longer and more
dangerous than them all.
The North Vietnamese patrols were still everywhere, Danforth didn't know the terrain
at all and studying the map turned out being pointless as well, considering how
approximated it was. When those three things were taken together, it gave him no
choice but to move excruciatingly slowly, and evaluate the terrain one step at a time.

Fifteen minutes later, Danforth wiped his sweaty forehead off.

As always, open spaces were far more quiet, but the risk of being sighted was much
higher. On the contrary, dense vegetation was easier to hide in, but moving was a lot
more tiring. Most importantly however, moving became slower and louder. Each time
Danforth made a decision, that choice felt like a burden on his chest as he slipped
from one hiding place to another, and from one shadow to the next.

If this hadn’t been a maximum priority mission, we would have aborted by now - he
thought. This is more like committing suicide than doing a mission.

He stopped suddenly and turned to face up, so he could listen.

Nothing.

False alarm.

Danforth went back to sliding from one tree trunk to another.

There was one enemy patrol behind him and he was one hundred sure of it, because
he had seen them going in his same direction just minutes earlier. Therefore, he’d
have to wait a while before letting his guard down, even slightly.
He had to move very, very slowly. He had to be extremely cautious.
He had to hold out.
Easy does it...
Like that.
No stopping, but take it easy.

Just a few meters further, the smell of a cigarette smoke was so strong that he froze
because of it. It was just to his left. There were Goddamn Vietcong standing right

105
next to him practically, and they were taking a cigarette break.
Unfuckingbelievable.

Just like any other poor bastard, there in Vietnam, even the legendary Vietcong
needed to take a load off from time to time apparently. As he waited it out, the smell
of that smoke became almost pleasant smelling to him.

To deceive dogs, the Baker Team used to stop showering and smoking at least three
days before going on a mission. That smell made Danforth crave a cigarette like
crazy though.

What a pain in the ass – he thought.

The fact that the VCs were smoking could only mean that they weren’t in a state of
alarm. More importantly however, it meant that they weren't on his tracks, nor on
anyone else’s either.

Excellent – he thought to himself.

Danforth smiled, and when he thought the time was right, he finally started moving
towards the really point again.

Fifteen minutes later, with the VCs far behind, Danforth finally straightened up and
continued as though he was taking a stroll in the jungle and nothing else.

You see that, Joseph?

Lady luck is smiling down on you.

106
 Manuel Ortega

Ortega was now surrounded by VCs. There was nowhere to go.

Jesus Christ – he thought.

How long should he wait before getting out of there?

Nice going moron – he said to himself.

Sensing something next to him, he turned slowly to his left.

He was sure that there was something there, something black and small moving in the
vegetation around him.
It was a hand.
It was a hand that had on the usual Baker Team military glove with the tips cut off.
Rambo.
It had to be Rambo even if he couldn't see him.

Fours - gestured the hand.

West.
Don't move.
Five minutes.
East.
(A few minutes from now, go east)

Ortega stuck his thumb out from inside the bush and his wait began.

Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes.

The sun was burning hot against the leaves Ortega was hiding under, and while he
waited for the second minute to pass, sweat began pouring down his forehead. The
head band he was wearing around his head was drenched.
A little before the five minutes were up, North Vietnamese Soldiers started marching
in the opposite direction. Two minutes after that, Rambo and Ortega finally got out of
the bushes where they had been hiding.

107
The Baker Team gathered silently at the last chosen rally point and only after
gesturing from a distance did they eventually reunite in the centre of the clearing.
Considering that everything had gone fine, they patted each other on the back and
even grinning too.
They had risked a lot that day, but it had all ended well. They could now move on
with their mission.

108
A Few Marching Hours Later

109
“Photo,” whispered Ortega.

Coletta pulled his camera out of his gear after quietly wiping the sweat off his
forehead.

Click.

His hands were shaking. Coletta was scared to take pictures of those North
Vietnamese who were standing right in front of him. Really scared.
Coletta couldn't wait to get across that damn path and finally getting away from there
for good.

Click.

There could be more of them up there, right next to us.

No, that can't be.
It's just my nerves playing tricks on me.

Click.

You’re just tired.

You’ve been first man for too long.

Coletta put his camera back into its case slowly, before leaning towards Ortega.

“You’re right Skorpio,” he whispered.

“If we cross now, they’ll catch us.”
“I’m always right,” Ortega whispered back.

Coletta shook his head in resignation while the two of them slowly got back to the
rest of the team.

“We could try with bows,” said Coletta.

“Hit them all at once, and then cross over together. We could do it.”

Ortega looked over at Danforth first, and then at Rambo for a second opinion, but
neither of them looked very enthusiastic about it.

110
“It's too narrow. Whoever is last in line risks being seen.”
Coletta didn’t know what else to say.
“Okay then, let's change our route.”
“Again?” asked Coletta.
“Again.”
“Fuck.”

Coletta and Ortega lingered a minute longer, like they were both hoping to be
illuminated, and suddenly come up with a better idea.

“We’re late,” Danforth concluded.

“We need to move.”
But were they really that late?

Ortega looked at his wrist watch and realized they were. In fact, they were so behind
schedule, that they risked compromising the mission because of it. Ortega didn't like
the idea of using bows, killing the VCs and then walking away like nothing had
happened. He didn’t like it at all.
There was no guarantee that once they’d hit those guards that a thousand others
wouldn’t pop up out of nowhere while the Baker Team was still crossing the open.
What he liked even less, was the idea of having to leave somebody behind if they got
spotted, and being dragged into a firefight because of it.
And then, had the leader of those VCs been qualified, Ortega and the others risked
putting a whole team of trackers hot on their heels.

“If we use the bows we risk losses,” explained Ortega almost apologetically because
all those extra miles to march meant they were changing direction once again.
“Obviously, if I have to choose between sustaining losses and being on time or being
late but my team gets there in one piece... I’d rather get there late.”
“It's a stealth objective, Skorpio. Reconnaissance take time.”
“So then let’s not do it stealth.”
“But there's a fucking garrison in there. If we attack just like that we’ll all die.”
“Then we'll die after we’ve killed everyone we’re supposed to and it’ll be mission
accomplished anyway. Right?”

Coletta swallowed.

“That’s correct,” he said.

“In the end, what really matters is just killing Yin and the French guy.”
“No,” said Rambo.

Ortega turned in his direction.

111
“We need the confirmation too,” added Rambo.
“The kill has to be confirmed as well.”
“We'll give it to him by radio.”

Rambo shook his head.

“Trautman needs proof of death, don't you remember? He’s got to give it to the brass
heads prior to the Peace Negotiations, because if he doesn’t, nothing will change.
Photographic proof is not an option, it’s mandatory. That’s the whole point of the
mission.”

Ortega gestured angrily. In the heat of the moment that detail had slipped his mind.
Rambo was absolutely right in that killing Yin was just the 'unpleasant' part of the
job. In all actuality, the true objective was to influence the peace negotiations, and to
do that there had to be a photo of it. Getting photos wasn't the same thing as just
knocking him off and walking away. So basically, it was fundamental that Ortega and
the others survived too.

Ortega turned to Coletta, but he was still watching their backs.

“We’re still several clicks away from the objective,” said Ortega.
“Maybe there will be fewer patrols around once we get a couple of kilometres out and
we'll be able to make up for some lost time.”

Danforth nodded.

“And, let’s not forget,” Ortega began,

“Committing suicide here and now would be pointless. We need to get there alive.”
“But if you’re wrong about this decision now, the mission is over,” intervened
Bronson.
“We can still head back the same way. Are you sure you don't want to take a moment
to think about this some more, Skorpio?”

“No.”
“Let's get the fuck outta’ here, Baker Team.”

112
The Objective

113
When they finally reached their objective it was already twilight and Bronson was
completely covered in sweat. To make up for lost time, they’d spent the entire
evening marching at a forced pace. A pace that had been too fast. It was more or less
the one they’d used doing the Green Berets' recruiting program, and that pace had put
Bronson, along with the rest of the team, to the test.
During their last, short break prior to reaching their objective, Bronson had reminded
himself to have something to eat and drink. The fatigue, sweat and anxiety in that
jungle ambiance had made him completely lose his appetite.
Consequently, Bronson had forced himself to eat and drink more than he should of, in
an effort to recover, but had still felt tired and dehydrated afterwards. It turned out
that he needed a lot more than he had actually consumed. The fact that he had a heavy
RPK machine gun hanging around his neck certainly wasn't helping either. Quite the
contrary.
Sometimes it looked like his weapon was trying to wrestle him to the ground.

You’re worn out – he admitted to himself, putting aside his pride.

I might make a mistake.
I need to be even more careful.

This was especially true because after a lifetime of not planning anything, Bronson
had suddenly taken the time to contemplate his future. By future he intended his
'after' war life. When operation Mountain Hunt had come to an end, something had
clicked inside of him, and he’d realized how important it was to take life,
relationships and future prospects more seriously.
He had given thought to what he’d like to do once he was back in the real world
again. Things like buying a house, getting a normal job and leading a normal life, if
even possible, after the tragic death of his daughter.

One last effort – he thought.

Just one more mission, and then you can finally get on with your life again.

Bronson looked at his watch for the millionth time and concluded, yet again, that
Rambo and Berry would have never been able to recon the objective before dark. It
was twilight already and holy Christ, was it ever late.
Rambo and Delmore had twenty minutes, thirty at the most to get their recon done
before it turned into a suicide mission.

114
But at least we got here safe and sound thanks to Ortega – he thought as he wiped his
forehead. Fucking hell...

***

Rambo and Berry were drenched in sweat as they took off their gear. They had
hustled through that entire march and, as they hadn’t taken any breaks, they were now
sweaty and out of breath.
Once they had set their backpacks, gear and AKs on the ground their teammates
watched them quietly disappear into the jungle.
They had obviously missed their chance to do a proper recon by then, so
Rambo and Berry were set on using those last ten minutes left of daylight wisely. It
was imperative that they see the objective, while they still had light at their disposal
because they wouldn't have any other opportunity after that. In the meantime, the rest
of Ortega's men started studying the zone and positioning themselves all around the
objective while they waited for the other two to complete an approximative and
partial recon.
Had the two failed their recon or been sighted, it would have forced the team into
engaging and completing the mission 'by force'. In that scenario, getting back to the
LZ would be nothing short of a dream.

“Thirty seconds,” whispered Ortega to the others.

“Let's take thirty seconds to calm down, Baker Team. Drink something, check gear,
whatever, just don't take longer than that. Then we’ll establish positions.”

After drinking some water and taking a few bites from a bar, Ortega showed up at the
riverbank. Even if he couldn't see them, he knew exactly where Rambo and Berry
were heading into.

A stealth mode objective – thought Ortega to himself.

But without the necessary recon time.

He wondered whether his decision to take less risks on march had screwed up their
mission inadvertently.
He looked at his Seiko watch: he’d know soon enough. The preliminary mission that
Rambo and Berry were on, wouldn't last more than twenty minutes, top.

The team leader looked around for a second, and choose a position right in the middle
of the Baker Team's deployment.
Once Ortega had found cover he could live with, he pulled his binoculars out. Despite
the cloudy sky and thick vegetation, he managed to get a clear view of the three

115
objective-huts all the same.
He didn't like the kind of terrain they had in store, however.
Bud as luck would have it, and with no time at their disposal to do the necessary
recon, they had reached the objective on its most exposed side. If it came down to
engaging, it would have been pretty shitty.

Ortega cursed to himself.

He considered the consequences of Rambo and Berry getting spotted, and how
extremely slim of a chance they’d have to get out alive.

Amen – he thought.
This time it's entirely up to them.

Ortega kept examining the terrain around him. He then hand signalled to Messner and
Westmore and indicated some positions for the taking.
Now the odds were a little better than before, but it was a shitty situation nonetheless.

The wait had started.

Slowly Ortega became more familiar with his surroundings, the river banks, the trees,
the holes in the ground and so-on.

One minute.

Tonight I’m going to set up a good old L-shaped ambush in the case we do engage –
he thought.

And if Rambo and Berry get caught red handed on the inside, we’ll put up a hard
fight.

Yeah...
Those huts certainly weren't bulletproof and once engagement began, Berry and
Bronson's RPKs would have filled those huts with bullets in seconds. Then, once the
initial surprise effect was gone, the fifty VCs inside those huts would have got the
better of the Baker Team. Nevertheless, a L-shaped ambush was their best bet.

Ortega put his binoculars away, sat himself inside the bush and pointed his AK
towards the huts.

Two minutes.

116
Waiting was the worst part. Time that Ortega was destined to spend knowing that his
team wasn't displaced well at all, and that now it was too late to move them around.

Three minutes.

Jesus Christ.

Crickets had started singing and there were mosquitos buzzing around on the water.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Rambo and Berry silently reappeared in front of Ortega, moving forward and
eventually disappearing again behind their covers. Before they were in position
however, Rambo gave Ortega a thumb up.
Apparently, Rambo's morale was high.

Very good – thought Ortega.

The only thing left to do at that point was wait for night to fall.
Everything had settled down by then.
Ortega didn’t even feel anxious anymore.
Now that there wasn’t anything left for him to do, he was calming down.

Like an animal – he thought.

Just like a fucking animal.

117
Five Hours Later

118
 Three AM

Rambo and Berry slowly came out of hiding. They were wearing their uniforms, each
had his AK slung across his back and both had Bonnie hats set firmly on their heads
even if it was night time.

Once at the stream they went in. They moved forward slowly and the water hardly
seemed to move at all.
As the river became deeper and deeper, the jungle hats on their heads looked a lot
like plant life, slowly sliding forward in the night. At that point, they were submerged
up to their necks.

The river was warm, the water was still. On the other side of the riverbank, almost
directly in front of them they could see the dock. They had reached their objective –
the three huts built on the hillside.

Mosquitoes and other insects were lazily fluttering around their heads and Rambo
walked with the utmost care along the slimy river floor bed.
The silence and darkness around them were absolute.
There were guards, of course. Oddly enough, they were all on the other side of the
huts, the side that faced onto the road. Apparently, they didn't think anyone would be
crazy enough to come out of the water.
After the few first meters the river had become too deep to walk in so the two men
swam silently forward by doing the breaststroke.

Rambo had already pulled his Mark II dagger out under the water and held onto it
tightly as he swum.

Only minutes later they were under the shacks.

There was a small ladder hanging from above that was probably used to lower
passengers onto any boats that docked from time to time. Luckily there weren’t any
around now.
Berry checked to make sure the coast was clear one last time before giving Rambo a
nod to go-ahead.

Rambo put the dagger between his teeth. He grabbed onto the ladder with two hands
and slowly started making his way up while the excess water poured down his
uniform.

119
The moment he was on the dock Rambo crouched down, reached back for his AK
and pointed directly in front of him.
Rambo looked around carefully with his AK in hand and the dagger still between his
teeth.

Nobody.
No sign of movement.
Nothing at all.

He put the dagger back in its sheath. Berry had come up in the meantime and was
kneeling right behind him, so the two of them were back to back. Rambo, whose
uniform was still pouring water, kept watch ahead with his AK.
Rambo was certain that from the other side of the river, Coletta was monitoring their
progress through his starlight scope. He could almost feel it.

The two Soldiers slowly (very slowly indeed) unscrewed the bolts on their AKs to get
all the water out of the breechblocks. It was just a precaution, but since it wasn’t
something that took long to do, now was the time to do it.

Rambo remained where he was for another moment just listening as Berry finished
with his AK. That’s when, for no apparent reason, a strange feeling came over
Rambo.

This mission isn't like the others – he thought to himself.

It’s a lot different.

It was an impression he was getting. It was like he felt tense or something.

It was almost as though this time, Rambo was...

Scared.

Rambo had always been a little scared on missions. After all, he was only human.
But, for some reason this time it was just different.
But why?
What had changed so much inside him? Was it because this may have been the last
mission he’d ever do?
No, it wasn't that.

It's because of Layla – he told to himself.

It's because this time, I have something to lose.

Rambo closed his eyes.

120
Turn everything off.
Focus.
Forget about everything.
Become a machine.

Rambo shut his eyes tight, reopened them, and by the time he was done, Layla was
gone.
She no longer existed.
He was back to himself again, at least.

Berry gestured him, so the two headed slowly towards the first hut entrance as
crouched down as they could. Within seconds they were there.
They had put their AKs back in their slings. It was dagger-time.

The front door was open.

There was complete darkness inside but they could hear the VCs whispering from the
doorstep. This was the hut where the guards spent their shifts, and there were two
VCs laying on a couple of hammocks. When they were waiting for the mission to
start, Rambo and Berry had noted that the guards changed shifts every two hours.
That meant they had more than an hour at their disposal to do the job. It gave them
excellent margin time.
They needed a lot less than that.

With their Mark IIs in hand, they slowly made their way through the entrance. Then,
when they both agreed it was time, they’d jump the sleeping Soldiers one at a time.

With all that blood squirting everywhere, Rambo wasn’t surprised he got some in his
eye. He was using one hand to silence, and the other to hit with.
The VC Soldier shook violently under Rambo, but his hold on him was too tight to
break.
Rambo knew exactly what he was doing.
He even knew how long the man would shake before he was clinically dead. Rambo
held onto him easily, and didn’t let up until the Soldier’s agony had come to an end.
When he was done he turned his blood-stained face towards Berry.

Two out – he thought to himself and by the look on Barry’s face, he didn't seem to
have any issues with what was going on either.

Rambo hung back to look at those two faces carefully for a moment longer, only to
be sure, but neither of them happened to be the target they were there for.

121
It was time to move on to the next hut, and it was quite a bit bigger. Aside from their
two targets, there would be a lot more of the enemy to deal with in there for sure. If
they’d given those two VIPs their own private accommodation, things would have
been a lot easier for them, but since that wasn't the case, there was no point thinking
about what may have been. They’d do it anyway.

Rambo took a deep breath and hoped to God that Yin and the Frenchman both
happened to be in the next hut and not in the very last one.
Rambo wasn’t crazy about having to do all three huts in row that way.
When he finally looked back, Berry was patiently observing him already.

Let's go - Berry indicated with a nod.

The two men slid straight out the hut and immediately made their way into the next
one.

Berry pushed the curtain to the side a little, to let some moonlight in. How many
fucking men were in there?

Eight.

Rambo had counted eight of them too, and they were all sleeping either in hammocks
or straw pallets on the floor. They had all put their weapons at arm’s reach so trying
to get at them would have made too much noise. As a result, they quickly excluded
that option.
It was too dark to single any of the faces out but Yin and the Frenchmen would
probably be sleeping on hammocks and not on the floor since they were the most
comfortable option. Two people as important as them would never have agreed to
sleep on the floor. They would have taken the best for themselves.

Rambo and Berry stood as still as they possibly could at the door entrance.

They had to minimize the chance that any of those men made a single noise, or worse
even, sounded the alarm. Engaging with their AKs would have been a suicide
mission, and even if they had a couple of AKs each, from a certain point of view they
could have left them for their team mates as well.

Eight men were too many to kill without even one of them noticing what was going
on first.
This time Rambo and Berry really had to be fast. A lot faster but just as quiet as

122
before. One single mistake could turn into a death sentence for the rest of the Baker
Team.

The two of them advanced cautiously towards the middle of the dark room and then
stood back to back once they were in position.

Rambo signalled three fingers.

Delmore nodded: he was ready.

Three – Rambo signalled.

Two.

One.

Almost paralleling the other’s movements, they proceeded with their chosen victim.
In unison they covered their Soldier’s mouth with one hand, while using the other to
stab them in the heart.
Then, for what seemed like an eternity, neither moved. As Rambo and Berry quickly
shifted towards their second targets however, the others started waking up.
All at once.

Fast – thought Rambo.

Fast.
Fast.
Fast.

Rambo stabbed the second man in the chest and pushed down on his mouth hard to
muffle any potential unwanted noise with the other. As he proceeded with the swift
upper movement needed to get his knife back out, the unexpected happened, and the
second he noticed, was a second too late. He realized that his knife had gotten stuck
between two of the man’s ribs (for fuck’s sake) and if that wasn’t enough, one of the
other sleeping targets must have sensed something, and although still half-asleep, he
sat up on his hammock. Berry, who was jumping from one Vietcong to another,
slitting throats fast with a single lateral cut, suspected something wasn’t right, but
couldn't stop to help Rambo sort it out.

No, no, no

Rambo didn't even try to pull his knife out because he knew there just wasn’t time for
that. Improvising, he reached down into his boot and drew out the knife he always
kept there. As he was getting back up, he leaned his body forward enough to throw

123
his blade right in the middle of the third Vietcong's chest.

hhhhHHUUUGH!

The North Vietnamese Soldier gave out a muffled whisper only seconds after the
impact, a whisper that sounded like he was chocking to death on something.

Three – he counted inside his head.

But Rambo had run out of blades by then. Moving fast, he jumped on top of the
fourth VC who was sleeping on his straw bed, still motionless and there on the floor.
Before he knew it, Rambo had him in the kind of choke hold that made screaming
impossible. His arm tightened until the victim began shaking violently due to the lack
of oxygen.
From out of nowhere, Rambo felt something warm run down his legs. The Soldier
had wet himself, and by holding him so tightly, Rambo had gotten wet as well.

Crack – and with that sound, Rambo had finished off Soldier number four.

As he straightened up and turned towards Berry, he saw that the last North
Vietnamese target was gurgling blood helplessly, down at his feet. His throat had
been slit and although his mouth was wide open, his attempt to scream was futile.
It was over.
They had taken all eight of them down, and in silence.
Rambo wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand.
They did it.

Berry gave Rambo a thumbs up, still catching his breath from the exertion.

Rambo leaned over and pulled his Mark II out of the dead Soldier’s chest, and then
moved towards the window to look outside.

Everything seemed quiet.

In the surrounding huts, including the one they hadn't be in (and luckily would never
have to see) was where the majority of the forces were sleeping. There must have
been at least fifty or so guerrillas in there, if not more. The two of them would have
never have gotten out alive from there.

Berry pulled out the small infrared camera he had brought with him. After carefully
removing its waterproof cover, he began taking the photographs they needed.
He had to confirm the targets.

124
Rambo kept a lookout while Berry continued.

The smell of blood, urine and God knew what else grew unbearable. The only thing
Rambo wanted to do was make sure they’d killed both Yin and the Frenchman. He
thought he’d only killed the Frenchman and not Yin. Being in the dark, and moving
that fast, all those Vietnamese faces looked almost identical to him so he wasn't sure.
To be honest, he didn't even care who he had killed or not. He just wanted to get the
hell out of there as soon as he could, even if not more than five minutes had passed.

My God, it reeks – he thought again.

He had to pull himself together. Everything was bothering him a lot more than usual.
Marching at such a fast pace was making it harder to focus.

It's fatigue – he thought.

Fatigue and adrenaline.

Berry moved over to Rambo and put his head close to his.

“The Frenchman is confirmed,” he whispered, putting the camera back inside its
waterproof bag.
“And Yin is confirmed too. You know, Trautman's big friend. We’ve got all the
pictures, John.
Now, all we have to do is get back.”

Rambo nodded.
That was the first good news he’d heard since that Goddamn mission had begun.
Berry finished putting his camera away in one of his lateral pockets.

“Now let's get out of this fucking place, Johnny.”

“Affirmative.”

125
As Rambo walked out of the hut the cold night air hit his wet uniform.
Everything outside was still dark and calm.

They stood for a moment in the shadows, listening for sounds or unusual movement
around the huts or on the paths themselves. Luckily, there was nothing to hear. There
hadn’t even been a single asshole around who had messed up the shift schedule, by
walking his route faster or slower than usual. None of that had happened. Everything
was motionless and stock-still.
It seemed as though there weren't going to be any unexpected surprises for once.

Rambo and Berry quickly made their way toward the river, but this time they went
into the water directly rather than using the ladder which was at the other end of the
jetty. They lowered themselves quietly, without making any noise.
The 'stealth' part of the mission was over.
It was done.
It hadn’t taken that long either. This gave the Baker Team some extra time to work
with.

As he swam, Rambo even gave himself the time to rinse his face a little, and get some
of the blood off. He rubbed his pants a little too as he tried to remove as much blood
and urine that he could.

Holy Shit – he thought.

“You there?” Berry whispered aloud without turning to look.

“Yeah, I’m here. ”
“Let's get moving then.”

126
The sun hadn't set yet, but the light in the sky was blue. The Baker Team had been
marching for at least two hours before Ortega gave Messner the order to finally break
radio silence.

“Baker Team to Covey leader do you copy Covey leader?”

“Baker Team to Covey leader, do you copy Covey leader?”

“This is Covey leader actual, copying you loud and clear. Is that you, Doc? Over.”

“Yessir. It's really me, Sir. Objectives confirmed, Sir. I repeat: both objectives
confirmed. Package acquired and on the move.”
“Can you confirm that with certainty, Doc?”

Messner turned in Berry's direction and the black man gave him a nod in return.

“That’s affirmative, Sir,” Messner said.

“If I had a dark room and a cable connection available, I’d send it all right now, Sir.”

Trautman paused briefly.

Then said:

“How ya’ holding up, Baker Team?”

There was a long pause before Messner answered him, a pause that saddened
Trautman who happened to be at the MacVsog's headquarters at the time.

“We’re not doing well, Sir,” Messner said in a voice that sounded a little broken as it
lingered out of the radio speakers.
Then, he continued:
“There are too many enemy patrols around and they’re everywhere. They were all
over the place yesterday, and always on the move. Today is the same except this time
they’re actually looking for us. Getting out here was hard enough, but the journey
back could end up being hell. Finding a safe route to the LZ might take for ever, Sir.”

127
Trautman shut his eyes for a second.

He always knew that any mission could become more complicated than anticipated.
There was nothing mathematical about being a Soldier. You took risks, and that was
just one of the many risks of the job.
Now, Trautman was sending those men out there because he needed them to. At any
rate, there was no point in thinking about it now. All the Baker Team had to do now
was bring those photos home, but if the situation was as bad as they said, then there
was the risk, even hypothetical, that they’d fail or at least die trying.
The fact was that Yin's death wouldn’t be enough.
Trautman needed those photos because without them Nixon would have never
changed his stance in the negotiations solely based on the trust he had in the Colonel.
The risks were...

Calm down – he told himself. You’re talking about the Baker Team. You’re fucking
talking about living legends that have survived everything till now.

Trautman suddenly had an idea.

“Here's what we’re going to do, Baker Team.”

“I’m listening, Covey leader.”

“You're going to leave the proof there, onsite. Your job will be to evaluate the area
and then pick out the best possible spot for it. In three days’ time I’ll send out a
rescue mission to come get it, presumably the waters will be calmer by then. That
way, you can focus on getting out of there alive and that’s it.”
“You sure about that, Sir?”
“Yes, I’m certain there's enough time at our disposal to get everything done. I’ll be
launching three proper, full-scale rescue missions, simultaneously. They’re touch and
go missions that will better the odds for success, making them higher than they are
now. Are you out of Zan lu yet?”
“Yes, we’re a few clicks out already, Sir.”
“Good, then you can go ahead and hide the package wherever you want. One place is
as good as another as far as I'm concerned. After that, you can concentrate on saving
yourselves. What do you think Baker Team?”

Messner turned to Ortega, who nodded energetically.

“That works for us Sir,” replied Messner.
Then he added:
“Next communication will be two hours from now, Sir. We'll give you the rescue
coordinates then.”

128
“Very well. Hold out Baker Team,” Trautman said to them.
“You did an excellent job. Now, get back home safe and sound, understood?”
“Yessir.”
“Over.”

129
Trautman handed the receiver back to the operator, and sighed.
That way was okay. It had to be.
With the evidence hidden safely, and three teams being sent to recover it a few days
from then, Trautman could be one hundred per cent sure that the Yin affair was over.
Yet Trautman lingered in front of the radio a while longer, apparently still absorbed in
his own thoughts. Then, after hesitating somewhat, he went back to work on all those
other things he had to do that day, which were all piled neatly on the table next to the
radio.

Trautman didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time he spoke to the
Baker Team ever again, and those would be his last words to any of them.

130
The Return

131
The evidence was safe, and it had been for a while.
Delmore had climbed up a gigantic tree and hidden it inside a broken branch, both of
which were now traceable thanks to a small, radioactive mark on each. Those
precautions guaranteed that they wouldn't lose or accidentally bomb the evidence
they’d so carefully hidden. In any case, even if that piece of jungle unexpectedly
ended up being the battlefield on Judgement day, they’d still be able to find what they
were looking for.

At any rate, just because the evidence was safe didn’t necessarily mean the same was
true for the Baker Team as well.
It was quite the contrary.

On their first day, the Baker Team members were forced to slow down and make
countless detours, all because of enemy patrols. The situation on the way back was
turning out to be even worse than getting there had been. The more the hours passed
by, the more detours they were forced to make. When combined it slowed their march
Southwards down because of the increase in enemy presence they came across. God
only knew when and how they were going to find a zone safe enough to call a
chopper to, and get back home. What’s more, rumours had spread regarding what
Rambo and Berry had done to the objectives by then. They were sure of that because
the VCs weren't just everywhere, but they were obviously bloodthirsty too. As a
result, the further the Baker Team marched, the further the South Vietnam border –
along with salvation – seemed to get. As a consequence, they marched at a pace
which was practically a standstill, and since they were on high alert, the eight
Soldiers spent the first twenty four hours without ever having the chance to eat at all.
Eventually the march turned into a real nightmare and even if he wouldn't admit it,
Ortega started having doubts about ever making it out of that jungle alive.
Trautman had made the right call by telling them to hide the evidence.

It was a little before sunset and the heat had suddenly got worse. To avoid the VCs,
Ortega had chosen a difficult route that had barely ever been used and was very
demanding to say the least. It was then, right when they were feeling tired, hungry
and dehydrated already that sleep deprivation and extreme fatigue began to take its
toll as well.

132
Even Westmore, who usually didn't bother with such trivialities as he liked to call
them, had put a headband on because of how much sweat was pouring down his
forehead. Coletta, who was pale and exhausted by that point as well, had given up his
usual role as scout, asking to be substituted several times along the way.

“Is everything Okay?” Ortega asked.

“Yeah. This heat’s a joke,” answered Coletta, between one sip of water and another.
“I know, Sniper. Sometimes it just happens.”

When they started walking again, Ortega, who was faithful to his role, always tried to
keep his team’s morale up. He liked to keep them focused by making eye contact and
using hand signals so they never felt alone. It was his way of making sure they didn’t
go into autopilot mode as they marched, so to speak.
He was always the most lucid and proactive from start to finish because that’s what
the role required. At a certain hour however, he too, just like anyone else, would have
given anything to disconnect his brain, even if it was only for a few minutes.
But he just couldn't. Not yet anyway.
He would have done it during their break, that night .

How exhausting – he thought to himself.

If he ended up feeling worse he would have given Danforth the command for a few
hours. Just enough time to avoid going crazy for good. Truth be told, his pride stung a
little just considering something like that. He knew it didn't matter though. Ortega
would have done what was necessary, as always.
Lucky for the Baker Team, Ortega knew himself well enough to know his own limits.

133
The Following Day

134
After they’d spent the entire morning marching, Bronson and Berry returned
unexpectedly from their two person reconnoitre right around mid-day.

“It's safe here,” said Bronson.

“We can stop here and even have something to eat, I think.”
Ortega nodded and signalled that everyone could stop and scatter.

Ortega saw that his hands were shaking because he had hardly eaten and was really
feeling the stress. He could barely keep from wolfing down his K-ratio of 'covert'
rice. It was dried and compressed rice made to resemble the Vietcong diet and even
had the same smell too.
Ortega figured he’d better relax or that ration would have ended up upsetting his
stomach and making the heat and fatigue even worse than they already were.
He was forcing himself to eat, but he had to do it slowly otherwise he wouldn’t digest
any of it.
The heat, the fatigue and lack of water that had to be severely rationed at times
because of the constant delays, had made him lose his appetite.

Ortega gagged, but managed to do it with his mouth shut.

In all actuality, those were all feelings Ortega was used to. They weren’t really an
issue for someone like him.
He had felt them for the first time in Fort Bragg, doing Trautman's gruelling training
program and on and off for the past two years there in Vietnam. Consequently, he
knew exactly what to expect for the next few hours at least.
For instance, Ortega already knew that this meal wasn't going to satisfy his hunger,
but just stimulate his appetite once more. The whole point was to get his sense of
hunger to come back in the process. Then, about an hour later, some serious hunger
pains would have kicked in.

As he sat in the bush and ate he didn’t stop looking around or listening for even a
moment. He was eating because in theory, this was supposed to be a safe place but in
reality, there was no telling. Besides, it’s not like he could wait until it was over to
eat. Those fucking Vietcong were always around.

135
 *

After eating a few bites more Ortega looked down at his Seiko and realized it was
time to start marching again.
The team leader took a deep breath and stood up moaning quietly as he did. It was
Johnny's turn to head.

136
Rambo advanced through the jungle by clearing the way with his hands.
A few minutes earlier they had spotted a patrol group at a distance so Ortega had put
Rambo in charge of choosing which direction to take. He had to get as much distance
between them as possible.

Maybe by going west... - he thought.

Maybe going west permanently we'll distance them even more.

John wiped the sweat off his brow for the millionth time. The slope in front of him
was so steep that there was no way he’d make it up unless he used his hands to climb.

Rambo cursed quietly as he examined it further. Not only was it incredibly steep but
the terrain itself was going to present difficulties as well.

Rationally, it wasn’t something he could easily explain but there was something about
that slope that just didn't sit well with him. The truth was that they didn’t have much
to choose from unfortunately. They’d made their choices a while back and now it was
just a matter of going through with them, holding out and not making any bad
judgement calls either, because again, he didn't like that slope at all.

Once Rambo was sure that his AK was secure on his back, he leaned forward and
began the climb up. When he got to the half way point, seconds later, he came to an
abrupt halt and listened.

Did he hear something?

Maybe. Something that sounded out of place, and not the usual sound a footstep
would make.
It had been too soft to be human.
An animal maybe?
Rambo had no idea.

Fucking jungle.

Whatever it was, it was already gone.

Rambo contemplated continuing.

All in all, it wasn’t unusual to hear strange noises or get weird feelings when you

137
were there, in the jungle. Besides, he didn’t have any more time to waste.
Rambo checked his watch to keep track of time. He shouldn't let his nerves get the
best of him.
One minute later, Rambo straightened up and climbed further until he reached the
peak where he stopped again.

The jungle was silent now.

He didn’t have a clear view of the top of the slope yet, but he was almost there and he
hadn’t heard any other sounds since the last.

Not bad – he thought.

It must have been his nerves playing tricks on him. No Vietcong in the world could
move that silently in that kind of vegetation.

Just a few more cautiously taken steps and they’d be at the top.

False alarm – he reassured himself.

It had just been another false alarm.

He had calmed himself down and was thinking coherently again.

You’re tired.
Don't bother denying it either.

Those were some of Trautman’s old sayings he could now hear echoing loudly in his
head. Those were some old school teachings that dated back to Fort Bragg.

Just admit it, Rambo. Anyone who can’t even admit he’s exhausted to himself is
always the first to give up.

Rambo saw something in the corner of his eye.

Yeah, and he was sure about it this time.
Something there, in his vicinity was definitely off, like a presence or something like
that.

Rambo pulled the AK off his back and held it firmly.

Then, as he slowly took the safety off, he lifted the selector a little over the weapon's
receiver so that it wouldn’t make any clicking sounds.

His heart started beating even harder in his chest so he tried to get his focus back.

Now – he thought to himself.

138
Now.

Rambo lifted his head slowly – very slowly – over the edge of the slope.

When he finally had a clear view over the top, Rambo was met by a pair of hazel eyes
staring directly at him, almost waiting in a sense.

139
A Vietnamese dog, 1972.

140
It was a dog, quite harmless looking sure, but a dog nevertheless. An animal, which
had absolutely no place being there, in that jungle where he happened to be right now.
What’s more, he just stared inquisitively at Rambo, looking him in the eyes, patiently
awaiting for Rambo to do something.

No fucking way – thought Rambo.

And yet, there it was, a real dog.

And yes, he was no ordinary dog, of course. You don’t just find dogs in the jungle.
That was a Vietcong dog.

No, no, no...

It was as most other Vietnamese dogs were, with a light brown coat. At first glance,
he seemed harmless enough, rather insignificant looking one might say, enough for
Rambo to define it as your typical, apartment dog back in the U.S. He wasn’t in the
U.S. however, he was in North Vietnam, what’s more in a jungle. Not exactly the
kind of place where a small, insignificant apartment dog should be, especially since
he could cost Rambo his team members their lives too. To all effects, that little animal
was a walking death sentence, just waiting to be had. In fact, had that Damn little dog
decided to bark, for any reason whatsoever, well, Rambo would have had to make a
run for it. He’d have to drag the little dog along with him as far as Hell away from the
team as he possibly could. An attempt so futile that he would have died trying
especially when he considered where his team was positioned at the moment.
Rambo had just sentenced himself and the rest of his team to death.
Only a miracle could save them now. Unfortunately, miracles never happened in
Vietnam.

Slowly – and I mean very slowly – Rambo reached down to his belt in hopes of
drawing his Randall knife out. He did it, and he did it in slow-motion, so slowly in
fact that time seemed to stand still the whole time. In the meantime, the dog
continued to pant, still standing where it was, in front of him.

No - thought Rambo.
No, no, no, please.
Don't do it.

Please,

please,

141
please...

The fact that he had drawn his Randall blade a few centimetres from its sheath was a
miracle already. If that dog barked, Rambo wouldn't be able to do a single thing
about.

No, no, no.

Unexpectedly, the animal tilted its head to one side, inquisitively, the way sweet dogs
often did. It looked as though he was saying hey, human...what’re you doing? Now
what?

Don't do it for God's sake – Rambo repeated in his head for the millionth time he was
sure.
Please.
Don't do it.

In the end though, he did. He went ahead and barked. Oh, he sure did.
He barked, just wagging his tail jumping around and leaning back excitedly, thrilled
apparently, for the company.

In the seconds that followed, you could hear the Vietcong whistling from almost
every direction, and that included all around the Baker Team position for that matter.
Whistles which slowly turned into full-blown screaming.

142
Rambo ran fast, faster than he thought he ever could, practically rolling down that hill
he was going so fast. He was dodging and blocking whatever branches he could with
his arms.
His legs may have been moving fast but the years he’d spent training unfolded
legibly, like an open book in his mind as he began to gather his thoughts.

Think, think, think.

Not only had their position been compromised, but considering the calling out was
coming from every direction, it was safe to say they were surrounded too. In those
few seconds that followed, Rambo would have bet his own life and not just. Above
all, he was betting the lives of all seven other teammates as well.
The whole world was converging at the spot where the dog had barked initially and
there was no time to coordinate anything with the team. Rambo needed to be fast, and
that was it. End of story.
Even worse, the final rally point he’d chosen, ironically only minutes before with
Ortega, was the last place in the world where Rambo wanted his team to hide at now.
Nevertheless, he was the scout. He’d been the one to engage so that meant it was his
call to decide where they’d withdraw to, in case their first choice was no longer
deemed viable.

We'll go back the way we came – he concluded in the end.

At least we'll have the advantage of knowing the terrain.

But when Rambo got back to the place he’d left his team initially, they were already
gone. They’d left for that last, horrible rally point Ortega had decided on just before
that disaster had unfolded.

Shit.

Rambo looked around desperately and he could feel his lungs gasping for air, still
somewhat shaken from breathing so hard. As he stood there catching his breath the
unexpected first shot echoed out into the air. It was immediately followed by a man
yelling out in Vietnamese, probably the first to have noticed (I-CHAN! I-CIAN!)It
hadn’t taken the VCs long to figure things out, not long at all.
With that realization, Rambo instinctively changed direction without even thinking
about it and started running towards the shots. When he got close enough to see some

143
figures finally taking shape as they came out of the jungle, he was unexpectedly
shocked to see it was Bronson there. What shocked him further however was that he
was getting down on his knees in front of an armed VC.

Caught – he said under his breath and to himself as a sharp piercing pain seemed to
slice through his chest.

That can’t be. This can't be happening.

Yet, it was.
They’d caught him.
And they’d done little, if anything, to do it.

They were dressed as Vietcong militia and not in regular North Vietnamese Army
uniforms. There were about a dozen of them standing in a circle and they had
surrounded Bronson. Rambo knew that there was nothing he could do for him at that
point. Using his knife was no good, nor would his bow do the trick. Sure, he could
have killed two or three of them at best, but that was it. Not even his AK would have
been enough because the return fire would have killed him almost instantly.

The Vietcong standing closest to Bronson holding the PPSH, took his finger off the
trigger, grasped it by its stock, and then hit Bronson hard in the head with it.

That was followed by two hard blows to the face, and then three more (SPACK!
SPACK! SPACK!).
The last hit – always right in the face – made Bronson collapse onto the ground.

As he witnessed the scene Rambo could feel every blow and Bronson’s pain so
vividly that it could have been him.
A feeling of complete despair seemed to come over him. Rambo almost instinctively
crouched down and moved back towards where the vegetation was thicker, so as not
to be seen.

There were more than a couple of dozen VCs there. There must have been at least
thirty of them, and he could see others arriving as he watched. They were all dressed
differently from each other. Mercenaries. Terrorists without a uniform: the worst of
their kind.
Because they were beastlike, the Vietcong. They weren’t human at all. Then,
unexpectedly, Danforth suddenly appeared too.

No, no, no...

They had captured him too.

144
How could they have caught them so fast?
How the hell had that happened?

Rambo looked down and tried to think, but he had already disregarded his initial idea
about using the bow, the knife and the AK as well. He was out of options.
It was too late.
He couldn't do anything for them now.
So he turned and made a run for it.

The further he ran the muddier the terrain became, and the Vietcong whistle blowing
and shrieks didn’t stop echoing the entire time.

You swore, Rambo - a voice inside him said.

You swore you’d die with them.

He would have if it had made a difference, but it didn’t and there was no hope it
would. In that kind of situation there was nothing left for him to do, so the sensible
course of action was find the other survivors before they got to the rally point, and
prevent them from going altogether. Perhaps there was another option however,
which might have made even more sense than the first. It was the option to...

Make a run for it – said a voice inside him.

Just run, on my own.

In fact, if he made a run for it now without any further delay and didn’t bother going
to the rally point, Rambo could still save himself. He could make it to the border on
foot even if he didn’t have a radio and was on his own. It would have been harder, but
not impossible. Rambo obviously did no such thing however, nor did he even give it
a second thought.
He was the one who had blown the Baker Team’s cover in the first place. So, even
though that option made sense from a purely rational point of view, Rambo
disregarded it nevertheless.
He had gotten them sighted and now he’d do whatever it took to help them.

An unexpected round of 7.62s sounded through the air. That wasn’t just any 7.62s
either. Rambo knew the sound of that particular 7.62 anywhere, the sound it made as
it embraced the battle ground like a blessing.

Coletta.

145
That was the unmistakable sound of Coletta's M14.
In fact, judging by the echo it made, it had just shot a round into the air.

Why?

Rambo didn't hesitate for an instant. He even sped up, hoping to take advantage of
the diversion Coletta had just offered him.

Why did you do it, Ricardo?

Rambo hoped Coletta was distracting the Vietnamese by luring them away from him,
but Coletta's shot didn't obtain that desired effect. Quite the contrary.
For some odd reason, the Vietcong didn't let Coletta's fire distract them, not even
remotely. That was how Rambo walked right into the Vietcong, all because he
wanted to reach that Damn rally point before anyone else got there.

146
What the fuck, John – Coletta thought as he lowered his M14 sight.
This time he would have shot to kill and not just to distract the Vietcong.
Coletta had fired into the air hoping to give Rambo a chance to escape by distracting
the Vietcong and luring them on to him. Rambo hadn’t taken it however.
Not in the least.
Rambo had to try to reach that fucking rally point no matter what.
What the fuck did he think he could do all by himself?
It was too late by then.

God Damn it, John – thought Coletta.

So, as Coletta lowered his head back down to peer through his sight, the Vietcong
Soldiers that Rambo couldn’t see were all taking cover in front of him. They were
assuming a perfect hedge dog formation which would have left Rambo no way out.

What the fuck, John.

This time Coletta aimed directly at the Vietcong leader.

Judging by his behaviour and considering none of those motherfuckers were wearing
uniforms, the man Coletta was aiming at had to be the leader for sure. The truth was
that John wasn't the only one who still had a chance to save himself.
He could too.

Coletta gulped.

It was the truth.

Coletta had a pretty decent escape route a little ways back, and once he got up there
he not only had cover, but several escape routes to choose from after that. There
would be no sign of his whereabouts for anyone to follow.

No – he thought to himself.
You just can't do that.

Ortega placed his finger on the trigger when he had a visible shot of the Vietcong
leader. He couldn't miss from that distance.

You’re making the same mistake as John – he thought then.

147
Rather than saving yourself you’re about to do the impossible for your friends.

Coletta raised his head slightly above his sight to get a better picture of what was
happening.

You can't do a fucking thing for them.

He could kill the Vietcong Commander at least. Then, all of them would have turned
around and bombarded him with bullets, and then the only thing he could have done
then, was run for it. Killing their Commander would have been a hard blow for their
morale to get over though. A hard blow only as far as morale went however. Besides,
after he was dead, what would even change?
Nothing. In all actuality it could make things worse. Perhaps, after a loss of that
genre, they would execute all the prisoners, solely because they were outraged by the
fact.

Coletta lifted his head definitively.

Deep inside he wanted to think about it some more before taking a decision of that
kind, but there was no time left. He had seconds to make the call. Regardless of
whether abandoning his team mates was the right call or not, it was a tough one to
make. The toughest of all.
It was hard to reason in merely strategical terms when the lives of his friends, his
brothers were at stake.
The sharpshooter leaned his head over his rifle scope and closed his eyes. He felt like
crying out as he pushed down the fear, thoughts of their friendship, the horror of it
all. He gulped, sending that terrible lump down his throat.
There was almost a sense of death lingering in the depths of that decision. The kind
of sensation which, at the end of the day, always pervaded everything in that damned
jungle and Vietnam itself.
Vietnam was death.

Coletta gave his head a shake.

He made every feeling disappear, ever fear, every thought, all of it. He made it all
vanish to become a machine. After all, machines only made right choices, and
nothing but. So, in the end, he did too.
He took whatever humanity he still had after spending three years in Vietnam and in
the end, he moved towards reality in its purest sense. It was the kind of reality in
which he had no friends, no enemies, there was no good or evil, there was nothing.
Now, there were only facts and choices to make in his head.
There was nothing else other than reality itself.

148
The reality of it was that if he fled now, he might be able to hide his tracks. The
reality of it was that in a situation like that, doing anything else was pointless.

Coletta lifted his rifle for the last time, sparing the Vietcong Commander his life in
the process and finally dooming Rambo, Bronson and Danforth, and who knew who
else, to their destinies.
A fate in which Bronson had been trapped into, but one that Rambo had chosen of his
own accord once he had decided not to use Coletta's diversion, but to give something
impossible a try instead.

I’m so sorry – thought the sharpshooter.

So truly sorry.

Coletta turned away and quickly vanished into the jungle just behind him.

It isn't over yet – he thought to himself, as he ran.

No, Baker Team, no...

Nothing is over.

149
In the meantime Ortega found himself in a very bad situation. On the one side there
were dogs barking, while on the other, there were Vietcong screaming and a chorus of
whistles echoed over the whole valley, in every direction.

We’re in deep shit – Ortega thought to himself as he pulled out the map and
coordinates list.

Ortega tore both of them into tiny pieces as he ran and then stopped to toss them into
the stream that was flowing alongside him. When he finally went back to running his
eyes were even more dazed than before.

This can’t be happening – he thought to himself.

But yes, it was happening indeed.

Even if Coletta went up to and shot a round in the air in the vain hope that it would
keep the VCs away from their rally point, he’d bet his own skin that this time the shit
would still hit the fan this time, anyway.

This must be a dream – he said aloud in his head.

Of course it’s a dream. It sure can’t be anything else.

It could happen to anyone but us. At least not being captured anyway.

Ortega ran a bit slower so he could decide on what direction to take.

He looked around desperately, making note of all the VCs everywhere and that he
could have never shaken them off because they had dogs. He lowered his head for a
moment and tried to think. Suddenly, his son popped into his head.
He could almost feel his presence, almost as though he were there, right beside him.
Then, he thought about Helen too.

Fuck the team – thought Ortega.

Considering how the situation was evolving, if he fled his team mates would
understand. They wouldn't blame him for it.
After accomplishing the mission, Ortega was clear that surviving was their only goal
from then on in. Now that they’d captured Bronson and Danforth, there wasn't even a
team to save any longer.

150
It was over.
It really was over.

Forgive me Helen.
Please forgive me but resisting doesn’t make sense anymore.

Ortega took his AK sling off his neck and threw it onto the ground to avoid
accidentally getting himself killed once they’d captured him.

Forgive me.

Then he drew his Hi-power from its holster but didn't toss it immediately.
Because maybe...
Maybe, on a second thought...
Maybe he should have killed himself instead.

When he was in Fort Bragg – a lifetime ago, during his training – the instructors had
made Ortega and his team mates listen to some WWII veterans, who told rookies
what went on inside the German concentration camps back in the time.
They even went as far as making them listen to some recordings of some female
resistance fighters, also captured by the Germans, and those women recalled the
torture and rape without altering their voices at all, and that made everyone of them,
including Ortega, shiver.
And some prisoners of the VC had been tortured nonstop for years.

The High-power pistol shook in Ortega's hand.

During recruitment he and the others had undergone multiple beatings, but those
beatings were to be expected. But the kind of beatings that were in store for him if he
got captured would be ten times, if not a hundred times worse. Besides, he wasn't
sure he cared that much about living. The guilt over even thinking something like hit
him right away however, and he started running as fast as he could through the jungle
once more.
He felt guilt towards his wife and son above all, because it was true.
All in all, he wondered whether shooting a himself in the head, to avoid all that
suffering might be for the best.

I am asking myself for real, Helen.

Forgive me.

The VCs were everywhere by now. He would never be able to lose them.
And so, Ortega leant his sweaty forehead against the barrel of his pistol.

151
I am really thinking about it.

But the accusing stares of his wife and son wouldn’t leave his mind. And so, if he
decided to pull that trigger, he was going to have to do it in front of them.

Go away, he thought.
His eyes started burning.
Let me die.

Ortega loved his family.

He loved them more than anything else, but he wasn't sure he could stand the kind of
Vietcong interrogations the Vietcong had in store for him.
Back when he was in Fort Bragg they told him things about them...

“Dai la mot, cai ciak!” (There it is! Here's another one!)

The Vietcong were fired up now. It was like they were already tasting their prey's
blood already.

I can't do it.
For real, Helen... I honestly can't.
Forgive me.

Ortega then cocked the hammer of his Browning Hi-Power, and when he pressed it
once more against his temple, everything suddenly became real.
He was actually going to kill himself.
And he was going to do it because, after all, Ortega was already well acquainted with
death. He understood perfectly well what it really was.
He knew exactly what was waiting for him on the other side.

Ortega took a deep breath and closed his eyes, but didn’t pull the trigger.

No – said a voice inside of him.

It was like...
It was like it was still too soon.
It was like he wasn't allowed to die yet.
Something or someone was preventing him from pulling that damned trigger, and he
had no idea what or who it was.

Oh God.
Oh God please help me.

152
Whatever the real cause was, Ortega finally lowered his Hi-Power, and dropped it to
the ground with a thud.

It was then that he suddenly realized why he couldn't kill himself. And to be honest,
his wife and son had nothing to do with it, and neither did the idea of dying.

He couldn't do it because of the team. His team mates.

Because Ortega was 'in charge'.
He was the Goddamn team leader.
And since they hadn't capturedhim only, his team still existed.
And so, he was still the Goddamn team leader.

And so, in the end, when the Vietcong finally reached him, they found him on his
knees, unarmed and staring at nothing like a patient in a psych ward.

Ortega didn't react to any of the orders they yelled at him.

He had to pretend he didn't understand a word of Vietnamese.
It was the first thing they had taught him in Fort Bragg.

I am dead already – he thought, while slowly raising his arms.

It doesn't matter how long it takes or what happens from now on... I will never get
back to the US.
I’ll never see Helen again, or my son, my brothers, or my parents either.
This time it's really over.

And so that day, for the umpteenth time, Ortega just did his duty.
And nothing else but that.

153
Rambo stopped his run abruptly.
There were so many of them—too many—and they were all too prepared. It was like
the jungle had made them appear, suddenly and simultaneously.
But most of all, they were too much even for someone like him.

Rambo's eyes moved rapidly from one enemy to the other, counting them even as he
studied the terrain, the shelters, and the feasible escape routes, but no... There was no
actual escape route, no real shelter, and no position to fight from, even for show.
There was nothing left.
It was over.

He had been waiting for this ending for years.

And now that it was happening for real, it was happening because of him.
Because some tiny goddamn fucking pissant little dog had managed to get eyes on
him.

It was then that the Vietcong spotted him.

They trained their weapons on him all at once, and then started shouting orders in
Vietnamese.
They ordered him to stop right where he was, to throw down his weapon, to
surrender. They yelled a thousand things at him, but Rambo heard all of those orders
fused together like some kind of terrible cacophony.

They caught us because of me – Rambo repeated to himself while pretending not to

understand Vietnamese, just like he had been trained to do in case of capture.
And so, despite the fact that they were screaming at him to throw down his weapon,
Rambo just let his AK hang from its sling and raised his hands in the air in a
surrendering gesture.

The volume of the screams increased and Rambo lifted his hands even higher, still
pretending he didn't understand a single word.

All because of yourself – he thought again.

Because you were the point man.

And as soon as they figure out that we’re not mercenaries, but SOG 'ghosts', the men

154
of the Two of Spades... As soon they realise that, they’re going to kill us all on the
spot.
And they’ll probably do it the worst way a human being can imagine.

Rambo swallowed.

You killed your friends, John.

All of them.

John slowly knelt on the ground.

But right now focus – he thought.

Focus anyway.
Bury everything you’ve done deep inside of you, just like you’ve always done for a
thousand other things throughout your life. Now, think.
React.
Plan the next move.

And Rambo did.

He pushed aside what little of his humanity remained inside, and did it.
And by doing so he lost another —and probably the last —piece of his soul forever,
but he did it anyway. Because he had no other choice.

Rambo then lifted his eyes, and when he did, his eyes were the same as they had
always been in the past: those still, imperturbable, and seemingly fixed eyes which
concealed a razor-sharp focus on everything surrounding him.

And that was the way—after an initial moment of shock—Rambo finally became
himself again.

It was then that a Vietcong in front of him hit him in the face with the wooden stock
of his PPSH submachine gun.

Rambo saw stars and then collapsed on the ground, in the mud.

155
PART THREE

156
THE VIETCONG

157
Once disarmed by the Vietcong, Rambo was manhandled into the midst of his
captured team mates and then thrown on the ground in front of them.
There were Ortega, Danforth, Bronson, Messner, Berry... All of them.
They had practically captured them all.

No, wait.

Coletta and Westmore were still on the loose.

Some of the VCs were still out looking for them but, for now, Westmore and Coletta
weren't there .

Incredible... - thought Rambo.

You two are a couple of badasses”.

But there was something weird going on with the Vietcong.

They didn't look enthusiastic at all about the capture of their new prisoners. Quite the
contrary.
In fact, they looked nervous about the situation, almost worried and positively
enraged: they were yelling and nervously gesticulating to each other while barking
orders at random as though they were completely unprepared for such an eventuality.
Two of them in particular looked like they were quarrelling with each other.

It was then that Rambo understood.

The VCs were scared of their own prisoners. And that, of course, could turn out to be
a great danger for the Baker team.
They were probably worried about having captured more prisoners than they could
safely handle.

At this thought, Rambo swallowed with his hands still raised.

He couldn't do a thing about it at this point. Nothing in the world.

Rambo accepted that horrible eventuality – over which he had no power – then
started counting the Vietcong one by one and studying their movements.

There were around two dozen Vietcong: all irregulars and mostly armed with PPSH
submachineguns, but there were a couple of French muskets, too. Only one of them
had an AK.

158
After a while, another six Vietcong turned up, dragging Westmore by his jacket and
throwing him on the ground right in front of Rambo.

No, Westmore – he thought.

You too, Goddammit.

The black soldier had his hands tied behind his back already, and a badly swollen eye.

What now? - Rambo asked himself.

The Vietcong started yelling furiously.

“They are going to kill us,” said Messner in a whisper

“No” whispered Ortega, without even moving his eyes.

“We are more valuable alive.Also, Coletta is still out there”

After saying those words, Ortega received a punch in the face for his trouble.
The VC who hit him smiled horribly. He had crooked teeth and breath that smelled
like fish.
Having silenced the prisoner, the Vietcong began to talk amongst themselves about
whether to kill them all or not, and they did so right in front of the prisoners, while
the Baker team members kept on pretending they didn't understand a word.
Because they had to keep pretending.

But then Messner started shaking.

“These guys are going to kill us” he said.

He couldn't stop shaking.

“Shut up, asshole” replied Danforth.

“We don't speak Vietnamese. Keep smiling”

But Messner's shaking was involuntary. It was muscular. And maybe it was more due
to fatigue and adrenaline than true fear.

“Let’s cut his dick off ” said the Vietcong with crooked teeth while looking Bronson
in the face. And then, like he meant to underline the phrase he’d just spoken, he drew
out a long Spanish bayonet.
“Let’s cut their dicks off and stick them in their mouths before killing them ”
The guerrilla fighter next to him let out a laugh at this thought, then said,

159
“Yeah, well... Do it yourself. I’m not touching an American's dick “
“I’ll do it then. All things considered there are too many for us to keep them all “
-

And while they were discussing how to kill them, Rambo, Ortega and the others
continued pretending not to understand what they were saying. Or at least, that was
what they were doing until Rambo's eyes met Ortega's.

No – Ortega's glance answered Rambo's.

Don't do it, John.
It's a suicide.

“Motherfuckers” said Messner. It was then that the one with ugly teeth' had an AK
passed to him and got closer to Messner, getting so close to him that Messner could
now smell his fish-head breath.

“I am going to cut your ear off ” he said, whispering a centimetre away from
Messner's face. He said it almost sweetly , like it was a kind thing to say, not that
the American would have understood a word anyway.

Messner managed to nod with no hesitation, like he really hadn't understood a word.
It was the best thing he could do at that moment, and he managed it very well.
The Vietcong lowered his AK along its sling, and in the end he walked away from
Messner like he’d gotten what he wanted from the prisoner already.
But after a couple of steps, the Vietcong with the crooked teeth drew his Tokaref
pistol from its holster. And then he turned, all of a sudden, like he had just changed
his mind—and shot Messner right in the head.

160
Daniel Messner saw the muzzle flash of the pistol pointed at his head and was
instantly blinded by it, like a camera had gone off right in his face.
And while he couldn't see a thing any longer, the Baker team's medic started thinking
that the Vietcong hadn't just hit him, but that he got him right in his forehead. And he
thought this because firearm flashes weren't strong enough to make the world
disappear the way it just had.
It was then that a confusing vortex of images started swirling in front of him while
everything was going dark.

Confused memories were followed by feelings at once unknown and familiar. The
whole world around Messner suddenly ceased to exist. It was as if he were
simultaneously asleep and awake.
It was a lot like being on LSD, a brand new drug when Messner had taken it a long
time ago, at the beginning of 1970, when he’d taken a 7.62 round to his spine and
they’d had to send him back to the US for a long stretch.
But no matter how confusing the vortex of images and feelings swirling in front of
him was, there was one thing only that he was perfectly sure about.
And it was Linda.
Linda was there with him in that moment, while Messner was dying.
Because he knew he was dying. Of course he knew it.
The images then became even more confused than before, then started slowing
themselves down.
It was like that whirlwind of confused images was slowly losing its energy right in
front of him.

Linda – he thought again.

We can still do it, Linda. We can still get back together again when I’m back home.
Because I do still love you, Linda.
I’ve always loved you.
A moment later, the confused whirlwind slowed itself down one last time before
coming to a stop and then, finally, disappearing.
Everything was now dark.
Dark, still, and silent.

That was the way Daniel Messner's life ended.

161
Messner was now lying with his face in the mud and a bullet in his head.
His legs had kept twitching for a long time after he had been shot in the head by the
Vietcong. It was like... It was like it took a lifetime for Messner to die with a bullet in
his brain. And every single second those legs spent trembling branded itself on the
inside of the minds of every single member of his team, and there it was doomed to
stay until the end of their days on this earth, for ever.
But now that horrendous, convulsive shaking had finally come to an end, at least.

It was like when you cut off a chicken's head – thought Rambo.
And its decapitated body keeps moving for a long time after it’s been beheaded.
The Vietcong burst into laughter.
They all laughed and patted each other’s backs like killing Messner had been the
funniest joke they had ever seen.
And, in their eyes, it probably really was.

Rambo was ready to explode.

He was just about to react when Bronson stopped him by grasping by the arm.
Danforth, on the other side, grabbed Rambo’s other arm, while Rambo shook with
emotion between his two team mates.

“He’s dead, Johnny,” Bronson said into his ear.

“He’s dead.”

But Rambo didn't stop shaking. And he was so strong, the kid.
It was hard to get a hold of.

Sometimes we forget... – thought Bronson.

But Johnny is two years younger than any of us.

“It's done” Bronson repeated.

“He's gone. It's over”

Rambo stopped shaking.

Bronson then hugged his squad mate’s head tight against him for another moment.
Rambo let out a little stifled scream against his friend's jacket to avoid the risk of
provoking the Vietcong.
And when Rambo finally lifted his head from Bronson jacket, he had some small,

162
insignificant tears under his eyes. They were barely visible on his unbelievably stone
cold face that betrayed no other emotion.
“They killed my friend,” he said as if in a trance.
“You right, Johnny?”
Rambo nodded.
“They killed my friend,” he said one last time, but he was almost back to himself by
then.
He was coming back.
He was getting back into an operative state once more.
With some considerable effort, certainly... But he was starting to get back to his
senses.
Because he had to get back to his senses.
He had no other choice.
And it was in his hatred for those men that Rambo finally found a reason of his own
to keep going.
A reason to stay clear.

'Teeth' – thought Rambo to himself while looking at the man that had just kill
Messner.
I will call you 'Teeth' from now on.

Rambo had found his lucidity again.

And when Bronson noticed this, Rambo responded with a nod.

163
At this point in time, the Vietcong started searching the Baker team's equipment and
splitting it among themselves. They crowded around the rucksacks like kids with
their Christmas gifts. And in their eagerness to get the best items for themselves, they
even started fighting with each other.
A kid in the middle of the group held up the 1911 he had just found, keeping it out of
reach of the others, so that nobody could steal it from him.
Everyone was filled with joy.
Clearly, an American-made .45 pistol was a prize much sought after by the Vietcong.
The kid who managed to secure the weapon had just turned twenty, but he looked a
lot younger than that. He pulled the pistol's magazine out of the handle and, seeing it
was fully loaded, he immediately put it back in.
He said something to the comrade beside him, and the other guy burst out laughing.
The two started laughing and joking with each other like they had never seen a 1911
before in their lives, and holding one in their hands was the best thing in the world.
Then they started looking back and forth between the handgun and the prisoners.
It was then that a terrible feeling of foreboding took sudden hold of Ortega's mind.

Without even ceasing to talk about the pistol—like it was a beautiful purse or car—
the two Vietcong started moving in Berry's direction.
It were probably the bullets that were causing them so much curiosity. The calibre. It
appeared that they had never seen a pistol bullet that looked so fat and threatening.
The kid put one in the chamber of the 1911 by pulling the slide back—KLACK—and
then he made a gesture to everyone to get away from Berry. He even waved the other
prisoners away too.

“NO!” cried Ortega.

Berry turned in their direction but he had just enough time to see the Vietcong point
the gun at him and fire.

164
Berry heard the pistol thundering and saw the flame flashing upon him. The whole
world seemed to crash and rumble around him, and then a purple flower exploded
onto his arm.

The pain was instant and excruciating.

“AAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Berry screamed, and immediately grasped the wound on his bicep without ever
stopping screaming. And then, after a long, seemingly never-ending moment of initial
pain, he looked down at his wound with shaking hands.

It was a terrible wound and it was bleeding too much.

And then there was the risk that the bullet had hit the bone, creating splinters in the
process. Those splinters were going to sentence Berry to death if a surgeon did not
pull them out in time.
Unfortunately for Berry, the only one of the Baker team who could pull off such a
complex field operation was now lying stone dead in the mud, with a hole in his
forehead.

Berry Delmore swallowed as he watched the blood gushing out between his fingers.

Not to mention the risk of infection.

And being a prisoner as he was, at the hands of the Vietcong... The infection was
practically a given.
Berry was now a dead man walking. And the pain...
Holy Christ, the pain was getting worse and worse rather than easing off.
But it wasn't any fault of his.
He had fought with all he had to survive that Goddamn mission. He’d used his
training, he’d reasoned, he’d hold tight...
And yet he couldn’t have made it anyway.
And it wasn't even his fault.

But it certainly is your fault—Trautman's voice intervened inside his head.

Because it's always your fault.

Excuses are for simple soldiers; they always have thousands of excuses for any

165
situation.
But you aren't simple soldiers, God damn it.
You are special forces.
And special forces are always either right or wrong, but they never make excuses.

Berry clenched his teeth, but the pain didn't stop pounding inside his head.

And if, one day, it should happen that you die in Vietnam – Trautman continued in his
head– Well, that day, you are going die asking yourself where you went wrong, and
what mistakes to avoid the next time.
You are going to die while doing one motherfucker of a debriefing, God damn it.

Berry lowered his gaze confused because in the middle of all this pain he had no idea
what he could have possibly have done to deserve such an end.
Then he thought about Cindy.
As the idea of dying became more and more real inside his head, he became unable to
think about anything but Cindy.

His Cindy would be on her own from now on.

Well, not exactly on her own...
Mom would surely help her with the baby.
Because to Mom, Cindy had become the daughter she’d never had.
Berry was lucky to be born from such a mother, and he only realized it now, after he
had been shot and was about to die.
Then of course, Mom had just lost dad (and her son too now), but she was a strong
woman. And she wasn't going to spend the rest of her days whining. Quite the
contrary.
She would help Cindy a lot.
Berry was absolutely sure about that.
Also, Cindy was still young.
She still had time to find someone else for, after he was gone.
Berry was jealous at the idea, of course.
But if he really had to die here, in North Vietnam during a black op, he didn't want
his Cindy to grow old and die alone.

I am dead – thought Berry.

I really must be dead if I’m really thinking about all of this stuff already.
Amen.

Despite the fact that the excruciating pain showed no signs of letting up, Berry took
a deep breath anyway.

Okay then... It could happen.

166
It has always been possible for this to happen.
Also, it was me who volunteered myself for the SOG.

The only thing that really mattered was that Cindy and his mother could make it on
their own and take care of the little one.
That was the only thing that really mattered.

Berry looked at the wound once again, but this time applied real pressure on it with
his hand in order to slow down the bleeding.When he did another terrible, sharp pain
suddenly pierced his whole body from side to side.
His vision blurred, and he almost lost his balance for a moment, but no matter how
much pressure he applied on the wound, the blood flow looked like it had no
intention of slowing down.
He had stumbled for just a moment, nothing serious. Maybe he was at risk of losing
consciousness.
Maybe he was dying already.

(From a bullet in the arm? Don't talk shit, soldier.

He didn't even hit the mark.)

Berry staggered, but didn't fall.

Someone was holding him up now.

(Rambo? Is that you?)

Berry then lifted his eyes, looking in the Vietcong’s direction once again.

Fuck you – he thought this time.

And then, with shaking hands, he tried to figure out how to pad the wound even
better.

You will never have me, fucking Vietcong.

No...
You will never break me.
Not like that.
Not without a fight.

He shouldn't give up. Not now.

It was an ugly wound, but he could still make it.

Fuck everyone.

167
His eyes filled with hate, and the Vietcong returned his gaze not just with curiosity,
but with some amusement at the raging eyes of this soldier who was probably
wounded to death but still raging like a tiger.
And after a while... Berry himself smiled, too.

But that was not a good idea, because at that very moment the Vietcong went all
silent at once, and the atmosphere suddenly filled with tension.

Berry shook off Ortega — who in the meantime had moved closer to Berry in order
to hold him up — and then staggered a couple of steps in their direction.

“Shoot me again” he said in English.

The kid—who was holding the 1911 in his hand still—swallowed.

“SHOOT ME AGAIN, YOU DICKHEAD!”

“DO YOU WANT TO DIE, AMERICAN?” shouted the kid in Vietnamese.
“IS DIS WHAT YOU WANT? STUPID YANKEE SHIT. IMPERIALIST
MOTHERFUCKER”
“Shoot me again, if you have the balls. I’m right here, you stupid gook piece of
shit...”

The Vietcong started laughing scornfully all at once.

“Snake” Rambo intervened.

“Enough, Snake” Ortega pressed him.
“YOU UGLY FUCKING GOOKS!”
“Brother...” said Westmore.

The Vietcong kid then lifted his pistol in Berry's direction, but this time he pointed it
right at his forehead.

“COME ON, YOU YELLOW QUEER! COME ON!”

“Enough,” someone said behind everyone else's backs.

The tone of his voice was firm and authoritative, like a commander.

The man started making his way through the Vietcong, pushing them rudely aside
like he wasn't scared of anyone. He wore a look of fierce superiority, almost violent,
as he came down the path towards them, stopping when he reached the centre of
them all.

“You wasted one of them already, ” he said, in a commanding tone

168
“Let me shoot the Negro in the head too, Pham. Please, ” the kid replied. His eyes
were still fixed on Berry's and filled with rage.

Pham – Berry thought to himself.

The Vietcong's commander is called Pham.

“No,” said Pham.

“Let me kill another one at least. Look how many prisoners!” the kid insisted.
“I said no. ”

The kid nodded unwillingly at his boss, then put the 1911 behind his back and in his
belt. Berry was safe.
For now.

169
Berry Delmore let himself fall to his knees, finally exhausted from pain and shock.
He had lost his chance to die quickly.
And now — whether he wished it or not — he had to go through the prolonged agony
that was awaiting him in the days ahead.

170
Pham

171
Pham, the guerrilla commander, was tall, thin, and had a sharp moustache.
His face — darkened by the sun he had been bathing in all his life — was filled with
anger at that particular moment, as his eyes roamed maliciously from one prisoner to
the next, in order to examine them.

He let one escape, Goddammit.

And the man who had managed to evade his soldiers and dogs turned out to be a good
one. He turned out to be someone who knew how to move in the jungle, and knew it
very well, too. Even too well.
Pham and his men had chased him as long as they could, but the fucker managed to
cover his tracks despite Phan’s dogs.
How the hell did he do it?
Pham clenched his teeth filled with rage.
Never mind.

He still had six prisoners anyway.

Five, if he considered the wounded one dead already.
Those idiots that were his men hadn’t just killed one of the prisoners, but also
wounded another one.
Well...
He would have made do with them anyway.
Oh, yes.
Because Pham had plans for those prisoners. Indeed he did.

Big plans that could make him rich if he just managed to play his hand very well.
Basically, all he had to do was sell them straight to Hanoi.
Yes...
This time he would have deal with Hanoi directly, with no middlemen — or bigwigs
either — in the way. And so the compensation money would all go to him this time.
This time it would be different from the last. They would have pay him alone, and no
one else but him.
All he had to remember was not — under any circumstances — to cross the North
Vietnamese army.
It wasn't going to be an easy task, but he could do it.
And by God, this time he was going to do it.

172
The return of the guerrilla commander to his men meant that Coletta had manage to
escape. The guerrillas were now starting to get moving, but before marching out,
Ortega turned around to get one last look at the lifeless body of his teammate.

They should bury the body of poor Messner. Of course they should (and try to
remember the body's coordinates too, of course), but trying to ask something like that
of these of Vietcong men would have been meaningless.
Ortega sighed in pain, then got moving.

Because, given the circumstances, Messner's body would never make it back to the
US.
His loved ones would never have it back.
In all likelihood, the jungle's wild beasts would tear it to pieces that very night.
But on second thought, that was the norm for so many SOG losses.
Because when somebody vanished across the fence (just as was happening to them at
that particular moment) they never got back home, dead or alive.
'Missing in action, presumptive finding of death' was the correct term. Yes, it was.
How many times did Ortega read that entry in the 65'-66' registers, which were the
first years of SOG's existence?
Too many.

Jesus Christ.

And that was like a nightmare becoming reality to Ortega.

He had been afraid of the idea countless times in the past, during the last two endless
years, and thought about it as many times.
And yet, he had never seriously considered the possibility of ending up like that
himself. Not for real.
It had always been some kind of bogeyman to him, nothing more than a bad dream.
And now the VCs hadn't just captured practically his whole team — aside from
Coletta — but they had also executed one of them for no reason, and had seriously
wounded another.

Ortega turned himself one last time towards the corpse lying in the mud before
leaving.

173
I’m sorry, Doc – Ortega thought to himself while looking at his friend's face one last
time.
I am really sorry.

Ortega then raised his eyes to the sky and the jungle that was awaiting him.

The sky had become darker, and the mountaintops, too.

The weather was changing, and you could smell it in the air.
It was bound to rain.

Coletta...
Where ever you are Coletta: go away.
Save yourself, at least.
Get away from this hell.
You can do it, man.

Just do it.

174
The march

175
Here you go, buddy. Eat this.
You have to eat something.
It hurts. I need to stop.
We can't stop. Hold tight, Delmore.
This way he’s going to choke.
No. He has to eat. He’s losing a lot of blood already.
Help me... Help me up.
I’ll hold him. I’ve got him.
Just let me die..,
Don't talk shit, Delmore. It's just a scratch.
(yes it is, but it continues to bleed anyway)
Come on, Delmore.
Let’s go, negro.
It's almost night time.
They’ll stop for the night, you’ll see.
One last push, Delmore.

176
After marching a few hours, the Vietcong's column stopped inside one of the many
provisional camps the VCs owned here and there north of the border.
It was one of the infamous 'transfer-camps', as the US intelligence used to call them:
a group of small, unsanitary abandoned structures improvised by farmers or hunters,
and haphazardly adapted to contain a handful of prisoners at best.
Ortega, during the march, had seen it right: the Vietcong were trying to avoid the
regular North Vietnamese patrols.
Obviously, they didn't want the other army's soldiers to steal their precious prisoners.

That night, the temperature dropped dramatically over the mountains on the north of
the DMZ, and the rain fell nonstop on the six survivors from Baker team.

The holes where the prisoners spent their nights were dug right into the bare ground.
Their tops were closed by bamboo gratings, and were so small that they could barely
contain a medium-sized man.
That night, the rain fell hard through the bamboo grating, and at times lightning lit the
dark, granting the prisoners a glimpse of the mud walls inside of which they were
squeezed.
The hole into which they’d tucked Delmore, in particular, was barely holding him,
considering how tall and big he was. And the wound on his arm hurt like hell just like
it was expected to do inside such a tight space.

One hour later, his teeth were chattering with cold, and the pain was making him sick
with nausea as he tried to shift himself at least a little, just to give his joints some
relief.
It was like someone was twisting some very long needles deep inside his arm. And if
that torture wasn't bad enough, Delmore never stopped bleeding through his one and
only filthy bandage.

I need to find a way to get this wound treated better – he thought.

I need to treat it properly, or I'll die by infection.

But he couldn't.

177
He couldn't treat his wound properly that night, and probably not ever. Not while
they were still at the mercy of a band of irregular fighters (criminals) like these.
He was also hungry now.

On top of not treating his wound and forcing him to march all day long with an open,
bleeding wound – the VCs hadn’t given them anything to eat, not to him nor to
anybody else on Baker team. The only thing Berry managed to eat was a little bar that
Westmore found by chance inside one of his pockets and that the VCs hadn't found
back when they had searched him.

You can't march for long without eating and drinking.

Even less, when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.

He was going to live for another two, three marching days at best with no medical
treatment, and he was fully aware of that.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
And since he couldn't do anything about it, it was better for him to avoid thinking
about it, and that's it.
Not thinking about it, and just keep going.
And not to give up.
Never to give up.
Turn his brain off and his soul too. Like a Goddamn animal.
To become an animal, and survive.

Once again, Berry used all of his strength to rearrange himself at least a little inside
that very tight hole. But for the damn, umpteenth time he couldn't move by a
millimetre.
It was something he had to do no matter what.
He had to give it a try every other half an hour, even just to try to restore some blood
flow, no matter how little.
And now he was hungry again.
He was hungry, cold and thirsty. And those damned tiny holes were on par with the
more famous tiger cages in terms of torture.
It was no mystery to anyone that the tiger cages were used with the express purpose
of driving people insane. But knowing it was of no use whatsoever. The damage they
did to your circulation and joints was real, not psychological.
And it was indescribable torture.
Not even from the beatdowns he’d taken during selection at Fort Bragg could match
it.

Jesus – he thought.
Jesus Christ.

178
 *

Closing in on three A.M., Delmore tried for the umpteenth time to lift himself up his
wall of mud a little, and for the umpteenth time he was stabbed by a million needles,
and felt no relief because he couldn't move even a hair.
At this point in time, he lowered his head against the muddy wall in a gesture of
surrender, while trying in vain to catch his breath.
Every new effort was taking even more air away from his lungs... And hours had still
to pass before first light, when they would finally pull him out of there.

But I’m still alive – he thought to himself with eyes red and full of hate. .
I’m still alive, you mother fuckers.

But Messner wasn't. He wasn't still alive.

I need to hold out anyway.

I need to stay calm, and not fall asleep. Not in this cold.
I have to do it.

But as soon as he closed his eyes, Delmore saw Cindy's own inquiring eyes in his
mind’s eye.

I am not dying, Cindy.

Not yet.

And then he saw his mother and even his father (who’d been dead for more than a
year by then), and it was like they were all with him in that moment.
Or maybe, he was just dreaming.
Yes.
He was dreaming for sure, and yet couldn't wake himself up for he was awake
already, and that was hell.

But I’m still alive – he thought again.

And it's just an arm wound.

If I don't lose too much blood and—if by some miracle—I don’t develop an
infection... Then I will survive, Cindy.
I will survive for real.
And that's a promise.

And it was true: Delmore wasn't lying.

As long as he had a breath of life in him, Delmore would never give up.
Never ever.

179
“Snake,” said Rambo in the dark, but he had no reply from his black friend.

It was four in the morning.

Delmore had ceased to moan a long time ago by that point, and now Rambo was very
worried.

“Come on, Snake” Rambo insisted.

“Talk to me Snake”
“Fuck you...Raven” Delmore finally answered, in a whisper.
“Talk to me, buddy. Keep talking to me.”
“Enough, Raven. I told you to stop it.”
“Hold out, Snake,” Ortega added.
“Yes, yes! Hold out, negro!” Westmore chimed in.
“Easy, guys. We’re gonna make it. We are going to make it,” Danforth said, shutting
down any further discussion.

Rambo, on the other hand, continued to call out to Delmore all night long, in order to
make sure that his wounded friend never fell asleep in this Goddamn cold.

180
The first day

181
The sun had just set when the VCs arrived.
Danforth was cold, sick, and most of all in pain — pain in his legs, his back, his
shoulders, his arms...even his wrists were hurting him because of how many hours
he’d spent crouched in one position.
He couldn't wait for the VCs to finally pull him out.
It was the only thing in the world he wanted in that moment.

This is worse than dying – thought Danforth.

Only then did his thoughts finally shift to Berry Delmore.

Oh God please, let him still be alive.

And yet, Danforth was so paralysed by his many hours of immobility that when the
guards finally pulled him out of his hole by one arm, he couldn't put up any
resistance. And his shoulder, with no help from its own muscles, made a loud 'crack'.
He’d dislocated his shoulder.

Danforth cried with pain and the Vietcong all around him burst out laughing.

Danforth tried to stand up on his feet, but he immediately fell back onto his knees.
After so many motionless hours, his legs were barely holding him up.
Only on his second attempt, did he finally manage to stand up again.

Then he staggered to a tree and, once he reached it, leaned against the trunk, still
moaning with pain.
The Vietcong let him go without ever stopping laughing.
Danforth took a deep breath and, after a little run-up, slammed his shoulder hard
against the tree, the impact popped his shoulder right back into place.

“AAAARGH” he cried, causing the Vietcong soldiers’ laughter to intensify.

In the end, an exhausted Danforth finally let himself fall to his knees.

One by one, the Vietcong slowly started pulling his team mates out of their holes, too.

Westmore, Bronson...

182
Oh God, please... Let Delmore still be alive.

Danforth swallowed, anxiously watching as the VCs dragged his team mates out of
their holes in the ground.

Rambo, Ortega...
Rambo nodded at Danforth as a way of saying that he was okay.
And, lastly, Delmore was finally pulled out of his hole too.

He was still alive.

He looked like the living dead, but alive he was. For now.
And then, while he was still distracted by his team mate, Danforth was sucker
punched by one of the guards, just like that, with no reason in the world.
The guard had brought the wooden stock of his PPSH machine gun right down on his
face.

SBAM!

Danforth collapsed, his face on the ground in the mud.

An instant later, the guards were all over of them: punching, kicking, slapping...
None of the prisoners had done anything to bring this on. The blows had come out of
nowhere, just like that, as if a switch had been flipped.
Not that any of this shocked Danforth in any way, nor did it shock the rest of Baker
team, either: they had all been through this before, back in Fort Bragg during the
selection program. They knew very well that captivity would be like this.
And yet, the pain was there nonetheless, not to mention the humiliation and anger.
And that was it. That was the only result of all of those blows: to cloud their
judgement just a little because yes, Ortega and Rambo had always been teachers' pets
since the times of Fort Bragg, but Danforth had never been one himself. To all of
those kicks and punches, he had always reacted like any normal human being would:
with anger.
And yet that day, that morning, Danforth was forced to admit to himself that Samuel
'the beast' Trautman had been right about that too, at least, for the most part...
Because those blows were frightening.
Maybe he wasn’t scared of dying from them, but about sustaining some permanent
damage? In that respect, yes they were very scary.
What if the VCs had lost their temper?
Of course it could happen.
All in all, Messner had been killed for nothing. Also, considering the way they were
screaming – and the way they were having fun too – it looked like they were really
letting themselves go. What if one of them really lost control?

183
And when people go overboard with some prisoners... The prisoners usually get their
fingers burnt.

All of that bullshit, all of those this talk about stress that Trautman and Garner had
given them during training... That morning Danforth had some kind of enlightening
moment and all of those talks of the past looked to him like they were more important
than ever.
And while the blows continued to fall very painfully onto him, Danforth tried to keep
his mind clear and protect himself from the blows. but without reacting. And most of
all he tried not to go insane.
So he just put up the minimum possible resistance he needed to avoid losing a tooth,
an eye or some other important body part. And in the end, when the beatings finally
ended, he wasn't just alive, he was still in one piece too.

The six men of the Baker team then found themselves on their knees in the mud,
gasping for breath and waiting for the guerrilla's orders.

“Oh, look” Ortega said while wiping the blood on his mouth.
“They aren't giving us back our boots.”
“So that we can't run away,” said Westmore.
“Bravo, negro. You did your homework.”

While listening to their banter Danforth stayed silent.

Because he – no matter how badly he wanted to - couldn’t remember jack shit about
the 'survival, resistance and escape' training course at that particular moment.
Danforth turned towards the Vietcong men trying to focus on what they were saying
to each other, but they were speaking in a very thick dialect that Danforth couldn't
understand. Or maybe, he was still too clouded with pain to understand it.

“They’re going to give us our boots back right before we move out” Rambo added.
“Fuck. They didn't tell us that back in Fort Bragg,” Bronson said, cheering Danforth
up.

Hey, Guess I’m not the only one who doesn't remember a fucking thing – Danforth
thought to himself.

“They definitely told us” Westmore intervened.

“Also, I was expecting it because it happened to a friend of mine” the black man
continued.
“He told me everything back in '66, during my first tour...”
“So he got out alive”
“He did. But most of the others didn't.”

Danforth swayed some more.

184
He was already almost back to himself.
Only then did he look in Delmore's direction properly.

The black man’s whole sleeve was encrusted with blood.

His face was pale, expressionless, and devoid of life.
Nothing could save him any longer.

Danforth lowered his gaze and cursed in a low voice behind clenched teeth: the Baker
team was going to lose another man soon. Considering the way things were going and
how much the Vietcong were enjoying themselves, it was obvious that they had no
intention of treating Berry’s injuries in any way.
Everything was a game for them.
A sadistic game, like he and his team mates were nothing but pigs for the slaughter —
to be butchered sooner or later anyway, ans so the Vietcong might as well have some
fun with them.
But Danforth, despite his anger, desperation, and physical pain, was trying to think
about the future anyway. His mind tried to analyse the situation, make a plan.
And Danforth, deep inside, had no doubt that Ortega was doing the same in his head
too.

Plan the next move, Ortega. Figure it out.

The Vietcong remained at ease — close to the prisoners, guns in hand — and that was
of course an amateurish thing to do. No guard worth his salt ever gets so close to his
prisoners when armed, because it makes it too possible for the prisoners to simply
disarm him.
And at the very first opportunity, Danforth and the others would give it a real try, of
course.
And yet, jumping the guards just like that was an extreme option, one to hold off until
the day they had an proper plan. And in particular, a plan for what to do about Berry.
Because Berry was the real issue.
They couldn't escape while he was in the shape he was in.
It was better to wait until he was a little better, at least... Or until he’d actually died
for real.
Thinking about it was horrible, but it was simply the truth. And nobody was better
than Danforth at accepting the truth for what it really was.
Not after almost three years fighting in Vietnam.
And he was sorry about his wife, but his mind and the minds of civilians had nothing
in common anymore.
Nothing in the world.

Danforth went back to the Vietcong.

185
Idiots. Oh God, it was so clear how amateurish they all were... Sooner or later, the
opportunity to escape would present itself, and Danforth felt absolutely sure about
that.
It was all about catching it at the right time. Yes, it was.
That was the way it had to be.

The pain in his shoulder distracted him once again, but Danforth tried to ignore all of
his pains and continue to think things over.
It was then that he finally found what he was searching for: an epiphany of any kind.
A real revelation.
Something Danforth could actually do.

One of the Vietcong, a really ugly one with a small, elongated face, was carrying a
Baker knife on his belt.

'The mouse' – thought Danforth.

I am going to call you 'the mouse'.

Inside the handle of the Baker knife that The Mouse was carrying on his belt were the
needle and thread Danforth needed to stitch Berry's wound up.
And now that they were all waiting to get back to marching North, this was the
perfect moment to 'give it a try', to attempt to borrow the knife from the guards, or
even just the little survival kit that was inside its handle. All of this had to happen
preferably without him being killed in the process, of course. And without saying a
single word in Vietnamese, too.
It was going to be a tricky thing, of course, and he was sure to take a lot more
beatings in the attempt. But he could do it. He had to do it.
Whether he succeeded or failed, he had to try anyway.

Danforth swallowed.

“Hey” he said softly, in an almost subdued tone, but aimed right in the direction of
the Mouse and his knife anyway. And while doing so he even took a step in his
direction.

The Vietcong started screaming all at once, and they all turned in Danforth's direction
and pointed their PPSHs right in his face. They even took a few steps towards him, so
overwhelmed were they by anger and fear, and the worry of missing a shot at him if
he tried to do something.

What idiots – Danforth thought to himself.

They should have done the exact opposite.

186
They should have stayed far away rather than getting so close like loudmouth posers
from some movie.

What a rookie mistake – thought Danforth again.

“The knife” he said in English language.

“YO DAI! YO DAI!”

God, how much he wanted to admit he could speak Vietnamese in that moment!

“I need the knife” Danforth said, while pointing at the knife with his finger and
crouching down, almost kneeling in the dirt in a subdued position.
“The knife? The one you have there, on your belt, you see?”
“DUNG LAI! DUNG LAI!”
“No, no...”

One of the Vietcong next to the Mouse hit Danforth in the gut with the stock of his
PPSH.
THUD!
Danforth immediately collapsed on the ground from the of pain. And that's what you
get for trying to help your friends out – he thought, but then he raised his head once
again and started pointing at the Mouse's knife on the other man’s belt once again.

“The knife, please! I am begging you!”

The two Vietcong next to the Mouse raised their AKs again and aimed at Danforth's
face like they were going to shoot him.

“No, please, don't”

Danforth made the gesture of unscrewing something with his hands.
“The knife... See, see?”

At this point the Vietcong looked like they were finally calming down a little. They
had finally understood that the prisoner was just trying to tell them something.

The Mouse unsheathed the Baker team's blade, making it flash dangerously in the
air... But at the sight Danforth's heart merely began to beat even faster than before.

Calm down – he thought to himself.

They are just doing what you asked them.

The Mouse then pointed the blade with a nod.

187
(Is this what you want? Isn't it?),

...And Danforth nodded multiple times to him in return.

Only then did the Vietcong finally turn the Baker knife upside down and start
unscrewing the handle.

Danforth then lowered his head fast multiple times in the usual Asiatic way of
thanking.

The mouse let the little waterproof capsule fall on his hand and opened it up.
Inside of it there were a needle, some thread, matches, sinkers for fishing, and more.
Then the Vietcong turned to Danforth.

“Please” he said while miming the sewing gesture.

“Please” he insisted again.

At this point the Mouse grimaced, but in the end he threw everything on the ground
in front of Danforth, like it was nothing but trash to him.

“Thank you” said Danforth while continuing to bob his head multiple times.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you”

Rambo used the little water the Vietcong had given them to clean the wound.

“This is going to hurt a bit, man” he said, then stuck the curved needle in deep.
Meanwhile, Berry was barely shaking his head with pain, half asleep as he was at the
moment.
And that was good because, being half asleep, he was going to feel far less pain than
he otherwise would.

“Water” Danforth said, like he was a surgeon.

The blood dissolved, the wound became visible , and Danforth started sewing again.

The stitches had to be deep in order to hold the wound shut tight. And every time the
needle went in and out of his skin, Berry mumbled a little.

That was how Danforth stitched up Berry's wound.

188
Three days after the capture

189
That morning — after being refurnished with the usual dose of kicks and punches, as
they always were — the guards brought the prisoners into the middle of a flat part of
the jungle and made them collect some wood.
They hadn't given them any food for three days in a row, so of course Berry's health
had worsened.

It was on that day, while collecting wood for the VC, that Rambo caught his first wild
bird.
He and Ortega quartered it with some sharp-edged rocks in front of the Vietcong
guards, who left them to it.
And then the team started eating the bird raw.

While the Baker team guys were chowing down with blood-filthy mouths, Danforth
shot a look at Ortega, but Ortega gave a slight shake of his head.
It may have looked like a good moment to try disarming the three assholes that were
guarding them, but it wasn't. Not really. Because they weren't really on their own in
that part of the jungle: there were still North Vietnamese patrols everywhere.
Also, not only had Berry stayed behind at the camp, he was also most definitely in no
condition to make a run for it.
Better opportunities than this would present themselves..

Ortega wiped the blood from his mouth.

After a moment or two of reflection, Danforth couldn't help but agree with Ortega.
Waiting was the better option.
All things considered, fleeing with Berry over their shoulders wouldn't just have been
too much for any one of them (Rambo included), but it would have probably finished
them off.

“Let's keep one piece of the bird for the larvas” said Danforth.
“For Berry?” replied Rambo.
“Of course.”
“Okay.”

190
Saigon

191
“Covey leader to Skorpio,” said the radio operator.
“Covey leader to Skorpio, come in Skorpio.”

The radio operator had repeated that phrase so many times that he sounded like a
broken record. Meanwhile, at his side, Trautman continued to wait patiently for a
response.
He had been waiting for a damn answer from the Baker team for three whole days by
then. During the pre-established communication time slots, Trautman had always
showed up in the communication room right on the dot, as punctual as a Swiss watch.
But the truth was that, even if the team had been silent for the last three, unending
communication windows, Trautman had no intention of giving up on them. Not yet.
He wasn't ready to give the Baker team up yet.

“Covey leader to Skorpio. Come in Skorpio.”

Trautman's face was expressionless. This was because of the thousand things he had
to take care of that day including — and despite — the tragedy he was finally starting
to accept. So despite his rocky inexpressiveness, Trautman was letting all of the
worry running through his head be seen on the outside.

“Covey leader to Skorpio. Come on Skorpio”

It took Trautman another two full minutes of this, but in the end Trautman finally
convinced himself that he truly wasn't ever going to receive a reply. And therefore, it
was over.
Three days was too much. This time it was over, well and truly.

“All right, private,” the colonel said in the end.

“That's enough.”

The radio operator finally changed the frequency and started dealing with something
else while Trautman seemed to age visibly, all at once.
The colonel then stood up from his chair with some effort, finally uttering to his
assistant that accursed, fateful phrase. A phrase he had said countless times before,
and yet, one that he never really got used to saying.
That he would never get used to saying.
Never ever.

192
“R.T. Baker is officially missing in action” he declared finally.
“Yessir,” his assistant replied. making a note in his logbook like it was nothing.

And so it was over.

He’d said it for real.
It had happened for real.
They were gone.
He’d lost them.

And now the time had come for the colonel to reflect.
It was time for pain.

Between the SOG temporary hold, the US at risk of withdrawing some thousands of
men from Vietnam, and a thousand other worries, a lot of things had change since '69,
when Trautman had declared his personal war against his higher ups, hoping to
salvage the outcome of that conflict.

Because of that very long, momentary uphold of the SOG, it had been a long time
since the colonel had stopped thinking of himself as a single, precious, 'enlightened'
man that could still change the fate of that war and so 'save' Vietnam from itself.
Those times were gone.

Trautman was now feeling like a raft at the mercy of the waves, a man more
interested in his survival and the survival of his men, just like any other American
soldier in Vietnam.
Yes. It was horrible to admit it, but he, too, had become like this.
And that crazy mission he had assigned to Baker team was nothing but his attempt to
save what might be saved.
A damned swansong that had cost him one of his most beloved things in the world:
his Baker team.
The only team — among all of his many teams — that he had dared to 'love'
throughout his career, and the only one he’d definitely bonded with too personally.
Was that wrong?
Maybe.
Probably.
But war, the true kind, was like this. Ninety per cent of any war is made up of wrong
decisions. For instance, any military with a modicum of common sense knows very
well that the simple fact of being at war means that something else has already failed.
Trautman would never have made that mistake lightly, much less in bad faith. Quite
the contrary.
That mission was rather meant to be his last, desperate attempt at doing the right

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thing during that damned piece of shit war.
In itself, the mission had been a success.

RT Alabama had recovered Baker team's evidence quite some time ago by then, and
Nixon was going to accept to change the US stance during the next peace talks in
Paris. And so, with just a single mission, Trautman had just granted South Vietnam as
many as two whole years of life.
And so the Baker team —through its sacrifice —had just saved hundreds, maybe
even thousands of innocent lives.

Trautman pressed his lips together in a tight grimace in order to avoid shedding any
tears.

He had always fought like a lion in order to 'save' that war.

He had really done anything for that God-forsaken country.
He had violated countless rules, he had hit below the belt, he had shown his superiors
the kind of results no one had ever seen before. But nothing had ever been enough.
Nothing had ever been enough to change anything for real.

And now I’ve just lost Baker team too, – he thought bitterly to himself.

Even worse, because of that conflict the US was tearing itself apart. The US had
started to waver and implode in on itself like a gigantic skyscraper on the point of
collapsing, which nothing in the world could ever help.
But saving those men, his men...
Maybe...
Maybe that was something he could still do.

Maybe, if he entered the game in person... Trautman would be able to pull something
off for them. Maybe, if he just put himself at risk personally, he would give Baker
team real hope of getting back to their homes.
But in order to give them that hope for real, he had to go out in person.
And this meant directing the rescue operations himself.
Because, had he done it himself, everything would have gone entirely differently, of
course. And about that, Trautman had no doubts.
But why should he do something like this?
Trautman had sent thousands of men to their deaths during the run of those last six
years.
What was the difference between any of them and Baker team?

None – he bitterly answered to himself.

Just friendship.

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Trautman closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them up once again.

That would be a proper and real preferential treatment, just because they were 'his'
team. It wouldn't be right.
And it didn't even make any sense, considering that no one had ever managed to
come back alive after being declared missing in action in North Vietnam.
And then there was that other matter too of course, the real one.
The one that would have probably screwed his career up once and for all.

Launching a rescue mission for Baker team would mean having to acknowledge the
fully unauthorized black op of five days prior.

Trautman swallowed.
And he swallowed again when he realised that he didn't care.
He’d never had any real concern for his career. And that was the reason why he had
always been so different from any other of his colleagues.

Everyone — since that damned war had started — took advantage in some way or
another of their positions of authority, without exception, as though taking advantage
of was a mandatory requirement in order to fight well for Vietnam.
But the difference between Trautman and anyone else was that he’d never taken
advantage before. The difference between him and any one of his peers was that the
one time he was going to take advantage of his position, it was not going to be for
himself. He was going to do this because of friendship.
Was it going to be an abuse of power anyway? Of course it was.
Was it going to be a form of favouritism for one team over any other? Sadly, yes, it
was, but had he directed the search operation first handed, an unusual amount of
resources would have been involved.
Was the discovery of the recently launched black op going to damage Trautman's
career? Absolutely.

Trautman let a subdued little laugh go.

Trautman's superiors were going to kick his ass like there was no tomorrow.
He was probably going to be a colonel forever after performing a trick of that kind.
Or worse.
Anyway, considering how many black ops he’d carried out over the last few years the
fact of having launched a personal one was not going to get him in front of a martial
court. Well. At least he wasn't at risk of being kicked out of the army.
The thing is that this time for once —and for once only —Trautman wanted to truly
reciprocate the kind of risks his men had taken for him so many times in the past.
And so, yes... Trautman was going out there with the choppers and search operations
for Baker team.

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For once in his life, he was going to do something really crazy.

I will save them – he concluded to himself.

It may be the last thing I do, but I’m going to damn well save them.
...And I couldn't care less about anything else.
Amen.
That's the way it goes.
I will probably ruin my career for ever, but Baker team is worth it.
For Johnny, Manuel and all of the others. It's really worth doing.

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And so, while Trautman was coming to a decision in Saigon, John Rambo – hundreds
of kilometres to the north – was picking up a dead bird filled with larvas from the
ground in order to bring it to his team mates.

Westmore poured some water into his hands so that Rambo could wash the larvas.
John then put one inside his mouth in order to disinfect it even more.
Once he was done with it, Rambo finally spit it out into his hand, checked that it was
still alive, and then placed it on Berry's wound.

“Jesus, what the hell...” Westmore said in a whisper.

“They’ll eat the dead flesh” Bronson replied while Berry, under him, was giving no
signs of a reaction.
“I know” said Westmore.
“Garner's lesson” he added. “I remember it very well”
“They’re going to clean the wound real good, man” Bronson said to Berry while
Rambo put a second larva inside his mouth.
“You'll see what a nice job those things are going to do for you, brother.”

A couple of minutes later, the whole of Berry's wound was swarming with little white
creatures, and Rambo was wiping his hands on his filthy trousers.

“All we can do now is wait, man” said Danforth, who stood over them.
“We just have to wait.”

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“Are you completely certain, colonel?” said Garner.
“Because when those two choppers are in the air with us on board you won't just have
to explain who we’re looking for, but more importantly, you’ll have to explain why.”

Trautman nodded reluctantly. Yes, he had given it considerable thought.

He wasn't going to change his mind.
Garner put one hand on his shoulder, smiled, and said:

“Okay, then. Let's do this.”

The two men got out of the hangar armed with rifles, and headed to the helicopter
whose engine was already whirring.

And so it was done.

Amen – Trautman thought to himself while mentally preparing how to explain to his
superiors who he was going to rescue, and why.

Never mind – he repeated to himself once again.

They’re worth it.

A quarter of an hour after the tragic call, the jungle was now running fast under
Covey Leader's Huey.

“Anyway,” Garner yelled over the noise of the rotors, while passing a magazine to
Trautman.
“It's a pleasure to see you with a rifle in your hands again after such a long time.”

Garner let out a laugh as Trautman gripped his rifle.

To tell the truth, Garner was teasing the colonel. He looked like he was having a
damn good time with this non-scheduled trip.
And while the gunship Huey escorting them was gaining altitude at their side,
positioning itself above them—Trautman was gazing pensively downward, as though
lost in his thoughts.

“This could even be fun, Sir” Garner interrupted him.

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“Or at least, it would be if we weren't looking for friends”

Trautman nodded thoughtfully.

“Oh, and most importantly. It would be even funnier if deciding to go out and search
for them hadn’t just killed both our careers. Hahhahaha.”

This time Trautman let himself smile.

“...This is a really shitty place to lose your men.” The pilot said through the intercom
angling himself around slightly towards them.

“Do you want to make your communication right away or maybe later, Sir?”
“No, it's better to do it now”
“Like ripping off a Band-Aid” Garner said with a grin.

A few minutes later, the Vietnam’s demilitarized zone was racing past them: hills by
the dozens, plains covered by the usually tall elephant grass, paddy fields... As the
two helicopters got closer to the border with the north the landscape became more
and more mountainous, and bit by bit the paddy fields and plains were disappearing
from sight.
It was then that the second pilot finally started chanting his litany on the radio.

“Covey leader to Skorpio, come in Skorpio”

He was going to go on like that for a while.

An hour, at least.

“In case anything happens—said the first pilot over the intercom—don't worry too
much: they’re going to shoot at us a little bit, and that’ll be all. I know this place like
the back of my hand, and they have no anti-aircraft artillery. Have no fear.”

But Trautman's face was already looking gloomy.

This is SOG history repeating itself – he thought .

Impossible missions, whole teams missing in action, and rescue missions as
desperate as they are useless.

From 1965 to today (it seemed like an eternity has passed since then) all of this had

199
happened countless times before, and always for nothing.
Because nobody had ever come back alive from the North.

The goddamn motherfucking story of the SOG.

But Garner — completely unaware of the colonel's thoughts at the moment — was in
a completely different mood from the colonel's. It took a while for Trautman to
figure out, but in the end he realised that Garner was positively delighted.

With the wind blowing through his hair, Garner was looking down through the hold
door, grasping his M16 as if a good ten years had suddenly been shaved off his age.
He was acting like being back on the dance floor again was the coolest thing that had
happened to him in the last ten years.
And it probably really was, considering how much fun he was having at the moment.
And in the end he managed to make the colonel smile, too.

“Good feeling, isn't it?” Garner yelled over the engine's noise.

Trautman nodded to his friend even if he wasn't entirely convinced of it himself.

Then he clutched his M16 a little closer to himself, and in the end he, too, leaned out
of the helicopter in order to get a better look at the ground below.

Maybe he was making a big mistake by going out and searching for them like this.
Or maybe not.
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who believe in destiny and those
who believe in some kind of God.
But the colonel, for his part, didn't believe in either of the two, to be honest.
He didn't believe in a damn thing , and he hadn't believed in a damn thing for most of
his life.

I believe in war only – he thought to himself.

And in war's reality in particular.

And so that day, above the hills over North Vietnam, Trautman sincerely and
fervently hoped to find his men again.
Because prayer just wasn't his thing at all.

200
Seven days post-capture

201
Meanwhile, the Vietcong had finally started feeding their prisoners.
In short, the men of Baker team started receiving the leftovers of a band of criminals
that were malnourished to start with; hence they received nothing more than a boiled
fish head or tuber, and those were always soaked in the horrible dishwater broth the
Vietcong would eat when they were out of 'actual' food.
Of course, those meals ended up being insufficient anyway.
And by this point Delmore was very ill.

The day they left for the North again, the march lasted seven hours.
During the journey, Berry puked three times and his team mates practically carried
him the whole way with their own hands. That day his team mates gave him so much
of their own water — so he wouldn’t get dehydrated — that in the end, they were the
ones who got dehydrated.
During the first stop of that damned day, between one beating and the next (beating
the prisoners in their free time had become the VCs new favourite hobby — always
in front of the dogs, barking like they were insane), the guards started betting on how
and when Delmore was going to die.
And they did this while the Baker team—unbeknownst to them—was listening to
every single word, Berry included.
But at the end of the millionth endless day, Delmore was still alive, and the column
finally got to their new destination.

Unlike the previous camp, the new one had no holes dug in the ground but some
proper, honest-to-god tiger cages.
To tell the truth, it didn't even look like prison camp. It looked more like a poachers'
camp, and the cages looked like they were actually meant for animals.
That night Berry was still alive, but the wound was probably infected, despite the
larvae and the stitches, because Berry Delmore was showing no signs of feeling any
better. The opposite, in fact.
His health was deteriorating, and Delmore was now spending most of his time with
his eyes closed, in some kind of half-sleep consciousness where he only responded to
the orders from the Vietcong, and only when they looked like they were really

202
serious.

Ortega and the others had begun to get used to the idea of amputating Berry's arm if it
started developing gangrene.

They were going to ask for the Baker team knife back from 'Mouse' (as they were
now in the habit of calling him ), but this time, they would have to also ask him if
they could use his belt as a tourniquet.
And then one of them would just saw Delmore's arm off, and he would have to do it
just like that, with no anaesthesia, just like they used to do back in Civil War times.
Fuck it! If their ancestors managed to do it successfully, they would manage it too,
and without Messner at their disposal, considering that he was no more.
They would do it at all costs, in order to save Delmore's life.

That night, Ortega — squeezed as he was inside his cage — continued to repeat by
heart the directions and distances they’d walked during the previous days, in order to
avoid forgetting them.
He did that every night, because keeping precise track of their location with regards
to the border was of prime importance, and the only way of doing so was to
remember every single day of walking.
The black soup Ortega gulped down that afternoon was making his stomach bubble
like a poison, and that continuous repeating of the directions made him look like a
mental patient inside his cage.
And this was also because — in all honesty — he was sick for real.
He was really sick.
And that night, without even realizing it, he started repeating those directions and
numbers out loud.

“Thirty miles, ten degrees”

“Fifteen miles, two hundred and ninety degrees”
“Two hundred and eighty” Rambo corrected him.

Ortega opened his eyes in the dark.

“What?”
“The last one is two hundred and eighty degrees north. It isn't two hundred and
eighty. You changed the last number without noticing”
“Uh, uh...”
“Trust me.”
“Okay, John. Maybe I was falling asleep.”
“By all means, fall asleep but without messing up the coordinates inside my head,

203
too, Skorpio. Remembering them is hard enough already”

Ortega tried to turn himself in Rambo's direction like he couldn't believe his own
ears. But because of the cage's dimension, he obviously couldn't.

“I’m awake now, Johnny. I apologised”

“Fine”
“Skorpio” said Westmore.

Ortega uselessly tried to turn his head once again as squeezed as he was inside his
cage. And again, his efforts gave absolutely nothing in return.

“Speak”
“Are you suffering from diarrhoea too?”
“Of course”
“And why haven’t you shit yourself already? Keeping it inside is bad for your health.
They told us that in Fort Bragg, too”

Bronson, inside his cage, let out a little laugh.

“The black brother is right, Ortega” he said.

“So stop acting like a fucking team leader and shit yourself like us common mortals.”
“But that way I’ll just dehydrate myself even more.”
“Bullshit, Skorpio. Do it.”
“Shit”

A gurgling sound was heard.

“Do you know what the most unbelievable thing is?” said Bronson.
“Go on, Viper”replied Danforth.
“That the most important part of our plan — when we actually have one - is going to
be the size of the shoes.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Luis?”
“Come on! The shoe sizes. You don't want to have to flee through the jungle with
those fucking Ho Chi Minh tire sandals on your feet, do you?”
“Shut up” Ortega intervened with a tired voice.
“Now sleep.”
“No, I’m serious: we should decide which sentries we’re going to kill based on the
size of their shoes.”
“Well, if you put it that way, then I want to flee with some real North Vietnamese
boots” said Danforth.
Rambo let out a laugh.
“But these are Vietcong, asshole. They mostly wear sandals.”

204
Danforth ignored him.
Then he added:
“Even better, they'll probably have some jungle boots they stole from the Americans.”
“More to the point, those people don't have any boots, or they would be using them”
intervened Westmore.
“Anyway, if they have any jungle boots they wouldn't be stolen. We’d have given the
boots to them.
“What the fuck did you just said, negro?”
“What?” asked Rambo while opening one eye.
“The SOG gave them the boots”
“Bullshit.”
“It isn't bullshit” confirmed Ortega. But, it being Westmore's story, he let him tell it.

“Between 63' and 64', the VCs were continuing to locate our SOG men beyond the
fence because all they had to do was to follow the prints of our jungle boots. Every
single time there was a print of a jungle boot on the ground it could only be because
of Americans.
And so, in '65, some intelligence smart-ass thought about throwing whole crates filled
with boots into the jungle north of the border.
The issue here was that those boots made their way into South Vietnam by way of
the black market. so now, nobody can figure out a damn thing anymore. Problem
solved”
“Holy Jesus” said Danforth
“Is there any truth to this?”
“Of course there is” said Bronson.
Then he added with a smile:
“Westmore isn't smart enough to make up something like this all on his own”
“Asshole.”

At this point everyone — Rambo included — began to chuckle softly inside their
cages, soft enough so that the VCs couldn't hear them.

“Okay, that's enough. Go to sleep, you smart asses” said Ortega.

“Thank you Skorpio” said Westmore.
“And thank you too, Trautman. Thanks for everything”

Ortega took a moment for himself to reflect about Westmore's last words.
Then he said,

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The black guy waited a moment before answering.

205
“Sorry, Skorpio” he said in the end.
Then he added:
“Sorry, Berry. Sorry to you all, guys”
“It doesn't matter, brother. Hold on”
“You hold on too, Berry”
“Stay strong, buddy”
“Tomorrow they'll have you checked out by someone. You’ll see.”
“Of course they will,” intervened Ortega.
“Because we are expensive. And killing Messner was a mistake.”

A moment of silence followed.

“And yet they killed him anyway” concluded Rambo.

206
Closing in on three in the morning, Rambo woke himself up for the thousandth time
in his cage, and for the thousandth time he tried in vain to shift himself just a little,
just to give a little relief to his legs at least.
Now it was raining again, and the large drops of rain created by the leaves of
vegetation were dropping heavily onto his head.
He couldn't do it.
He really couldn't do it.
He really couldn't fight against his own pain, not that night.
He had to be sick.
He had to have caught something, because he just didn't feel like himself that
particular night.

Layla – he thought.

At that precise moment, he would have given anything in order to have a chance to
hug her.

And if one day you happen to be captured, that day the war isn't going to be over for
you – said Trautman's voice inside his head as he remembered.

You won't stop being soldiers just because you’ve been captured.
You’re going to continue the fight, Baker team.
It's just going to be a very different sort of war from the kind you were used to before
being captured.
And for many of you, this different kind of war is going to be even worse than the
other one, believe me.

And Rambo believed him.

Because he always believed the colonel.

The wind was now blowing through the bamboo grate, frigid and icy against his
black pyjamas. Rambo closed his eyes and the blackness immediately wrapped him
like a cold blanket pushing everything away in the process.

Why haven't they question us yet? - he asked himself.

Why are they just beating us, and that's it?

“Why aren't they questioning us?” he said in the end, in a loud voice, as though

207
sleepwalking.

Ortega, who wasn't sleeping at the moment, heard Rambo's complaint.

But he — unlike his team mate — knew exactly why the VC hadn't started
questioning them yet.
Always knowing everything had long been a sort of personal curse for Ortega, since
time immemorial .

“I think...” he eventually said in a low voice — to avoid waking the others up.
“I think these aren't real Vietcong” he said finally.

And then everything disappeared.

But Danforth had heard him, and after that last phrase he finally closed his eyes.
Now, yes, everything finally made sense.
Ortega was right, of course.
Yes, he was. He always was.

Those weren't common Vietcong.

There were too many things amiss. Had they been regular Vietcong, they would have
started marching to Hanoi by then, while what they were doing was just marching in
circles to make them lose their sense of direction, among other things. And this
would have made their escape even more difficult, of course.
And the moment when Danforth, for the first time, had the guts to admit to himself
that those were no regular Vietcong, he felt like he had just received a death sentence.

The way they are trying to avoid North Vietnamese patrols...

The way they are hiding us from everyone...

Those are common criminals.

Mercenaries at best.

It was then that the overall picture of the situation completely changed in his head,
and it changed for the worse because the fact that they were criminals (or mercenaries
at best) made them completely, absolutely unpredictable.
And escaping from enemies that were so unpredictable would be even more difficult.
Maybe even impossible.

And then...

208
And then they will sell us to the highest bidder like fucking livestock.
And if they don't find anyone to sell us to, they’ll just kill us, and that’ll be that.

That much was certain.

And so, Danforth looked up at the black sky.
The rain continued to fall all night long.

209
Fifteen days after the capture

210
Berry was still alive.
And that day, during the march, it was Ortega's turn to hold him up.

How the fuck is he going to manage? - the team leader asked himself at one point.
Berry couldn't even keep his eyes open while Ortega was holding him by one
shoulder.

How the fuck are YOU going to manage? – he asked himself right after.
Exactly.

The exhaustion from endless marching had become mind-blowing for him by then.
Ortega was sweating like a fountain, and every single muscle in his body ached, but
Berry... Berry couldn't even keep his eyes open anymore, and was continuously
dragging his feet and stumbling. His head hung down as he trudged along, like he
was already unconscious. If he continued to get worse, they would need two people
to carry him.

I need to stop – thought Ortega.

I need to take a moment of rest at least, or I am going to 'explode' even before Johnny
comes to relieve me.

At this point Ortega tried to distract himself by continuing to think things over.
So he started reflecting on his enemies and the way they were handling the marching
column.

The Vietcong were keeping a certain amount of distance from the prisoners, and they
were taking turns at the front of the column with a certain amount of regularity.
The group at the head of the column was advancing with dogs and leading the way,
while the group in the back was keeping the prisoners in line by making sure they
didn't do anything stupid.
Ortega had been studying the Vietcong for quite some time by then.
They were good.
For being a bunch of amateurs, when it came to getting around in the jungle they
knew their stuff, and there was nothing more to say about that.
They avoided open fields — even at the tops of the most inaccessible mountains —
and they avoided most of the paths, and they were capable of doing so without ever
getting themselves stuck where the vegetation was too thick to keep going.

211
God damned Vietcong.

“You hear that?” Bronson said all of a sudden, stopping everyone else in their tracks,
the Vietcong included.
Meanwhile, the dogs at the head of the column started barking all at once.
Ortega, Rambo, and the others all turned to look at Bronson.

“Yes... Yes I do. I hear something” said Danforth.

“I don't hear shit” Berry said, with his eyes still closed and clutching his swollen arm.
He spoke – thought Ortega.
He actually spoke.
“Airplanes... It's the airplanes” said Westmore.
“We’re here” Danforth said while waving his arms.

Bronson turned toward the VC's in horror, but luckily for them the VCs were too far
away to see or hear Danforth.
And that was when Bronson started waving too.

The F4 flashed past over them with a thundering noise.

The second F4 — the one that was following the first one — let two metallic
cylinders fall, and those started twisting downward in their direction.

Napalm – thought Ortega.

But it was too late already.

It was too late to try anything.

“SHIT!”
“HOLY CHRIST!”

Everyone threw themselves down in the mud.

“Oh Jesus, no...”

The bombs fell in the jungle behind their backs, missing them by a hair's breadth.
At first, a kind of suction sound was heard, and then they were all run over by a
scalding flow of air that pushed the tree tops first forwards, then backwards.
The fire rose up, red and colossal behind their backs while swirling around itself over
their heads like a majestic eruption of gaseous lava.
The wave of heat and fire took the breath from all their lungs, prisoners and guards
alike — even if the guards were quite distant from them at that moment — and not
one of them could breathe, good guys or bad.
Somebody fell to the ground.

212
Many grasped their own throats, their bellies shaken by spasms.
Some others rolled in the mud floundering with their hands while trying to get their
breath back in vain.
Luckily for them, the suction caused by the warmth lasted for a relatively short
amount of time, and after some endless moments both the prisoners and the guards
began desperately sucking air in once more.

“Stupid piece-of-shit assholes!” Westmore shouted, waving his fist in the air.

Then he burst into tears, although they weren’t real tears of sadness.
It was just the nerves.
That was the day the Baker team cursed American planes for the first time.
But there would be others.

213
Twenty-two days post-capture

214
It was night time and it started raining again on the horrible new improvised prison
camp.
For the umpteenth, time Bronson tried to shake himself up in the dark by pushing
with all the strength he had against the sides of his cage. And once again, it did
absolutely nothing for the circulation in his legs. And, for the umpteenth time,
Bronson surrendered himself to the idea that he would never fall asleep again.
No matter what he tried in order to get some relief in those damned cages it never
worked.
Bronson leant his head against the bamboo wall. He was exhausted.
He preferred to sleep tied to a tree in the jungle—like they used to do while moving
from one camp to the other—rather than inside those damned tiger cages. Those
'provisional' prison camps were literally killing him. And that particular night,
Bronson couldn't stand it any longer.
He was exploding.
But at the end of the day he’d known from the start that sooner or later he would
'explode' in any case.
No one could stand something like this for long.
No one in the world.

My girl...
My baby girl.

And here she was.

Bronson had been waiting for her for a while, and now she had finally come.
It took more than he could have imagined, but in the end his daughter had come for
real.
Of course she had.
Since he had arrived in Vietnam with the Baker team, Bronson had managed to forget
about his daughter's death several times, especially when the adrenaline rush was
upon him, during missions. And sometimes he managed to forget about it so well that
he could even imagine a future for himself one day in the United States, like he had
right after the end of that damned battle over the mountains some months before.

Mountain Hunt – Bronson thought to himself.

After operation Mountain Hunt, Bronson was even able to plan some projects for
himself when he was back in the USA for good.

215
And up to that last fateful mission, he’d even managed to actually believe in those
projects.
It was so sick.
He had been so happy to survive that damn open-field battle over the mountains that
for a couple of months he could even imagine a future for himself living in the US.
A life as a civilian... Crazy stuff. And with a regular job, too.
(the very thought almost brought him to tears at that particular moment.)
But there, inside those damned tiger cages, during those endless nights when there
was no way for you to sleep (only suffer), that pain forced you to be alone with your
own thoughts and your mental illness, if you were suffering by any.
And when you were a prisoner in Vietnam, everybody was mentally ill.
And that was the reason why his daughter came to meet him that night.
The memory of his daughter's corpse (dead in the middle of the road, under the white
police blanket) came straight up from his stomach like an acid burp when you’re
drunk and moments away from puking.
And Luis really needed to puke at that moment.

Congestion – he thought to himself.

Congestion or indigestion, I don't know. But I am sick with something.
Something is wrong with my stomach.

Too cold, too much shitty food, too much filthy water.
That night they had eaten in the rain right before going to 'sleep' (sleep, my ass).
Bronson was even short of breath by then, but he was so squeezed inside his cage that
he couldn't even breathe properly, so constricted was his chest.
Meanwhile, the memory of his daughter's death had returned too.
He went back to seeing that blanket again, and that body under that blanket and
everything else, when he’d unwisely asked the cops to pull that damned blanket down
for just one moment.

Jesus Christ.

And then, without warning, his head suddenly fell against the bamboo grate, because
Bronson had finally passed out.

It was then that he started dreaming.

But more than a dream, that night Bronson's travel looked a lot like an acid trip.

216
Lucy was playing in the yard of their house, and was still alive.
The grass in the yard was perfectly cut and had an emerald green colour too, like it
had rained recently.

Lucy...- Bronson thought desperately, when he saw her alive.

The dolls...
The dolls were having a tea party.

(Bronson had forgotten about this particular game of his daughter’s. He had
completely removed it from his mind).

Lucy had only two dolls.

(she wanted to have more. Every little girl in the world wanted more dolls)

and she often acted like those dolls were her best friends

(imaginary friends, just like a lot of kids used to have)

Lucy had given names to both of those dolls, of course.

But that night, Bronson couldn't remember them, not even during that dream inside
his cage.

(Bronson wept a little through his closed eyes inside his cage)

He would have wanted to give at least another couple of dolls to his daughter.
He should have done that, and a thousand other things besides, before she died. This
was what he wished, because had he known how short his daughter's life would be,
he would have spoiled her much more than he had.
Oh yes, he would have spoiled her for sure.
Had he only known, he would have given her everything.

The sun light was bouncing off his daughter's chestnut hair with marvellous,
dreamlike reflections.
She was wonderful.
She was marvellous.
She was the most beautiful thing Bronson had ever seen or had in his whole life.

217
Lucy stood up from her tea table and improvised some dance steps, humming to
herself light-hearted and happy. She still had all of her life ahead of her as she
pirouetted around and hummed to herself.
Her hair danced sweetly around her head, lifting in the air as she executed first one
pirouette, then another, and one more after that.

Bronson groaned involuntarily, and it was then that screams took him away from that
dream.
But outside of that dream, it was he who was screaming.

218
“LUCY! LUCIEEEEEEEE!
NO, NO, NOOOOOOO”

“Luis!” screamed Rambo.

“Luis, Luis!” all of his mates started shouting in unison, in a chorus of the insane.

Bronson shook his head and then he pushed his legs against his cage with all of the
strength he had, putting his arms and then his back into it, until he started pushing
with his whole body against those damned bamboo walls, hurting himself in the
process, especially in the spots where he had been beaten that morning.

“AAAAAAARGH!”
“He’s having a seizure” said Danforth.
“He isn't having a damn thing” added Ortega.
“Stop screaming, soldier! THAT IS A FUCKING ORDER!”

Something inside Bronson's head recognized the pissed-off voice of his team leader,
the same old voice his life had depended on so many times in the past. And that was
enough for him to calm himself down as he finally woke up for real.

Bronson then lowered his head, exhausted.

“Lucy” he whispered despondently.

And, finally, he burst into tears.

A strangled cry, a stifled one, but no less painful.

A dry heave shook his belly, and then another. But at the very least, he was awake
now, and that horrible nightmare had finally vanished.
Maybe he was getting sick.
Maybe he was close to death.

“Oh God” he said.

Lucy, Lucy, Lucy...
“Oh God, Jesus, please.”
My Lucy

“Luis” said Rambo.

219
Bronson barely responded, releasing a sort of moan.
“Wake up, man.”
“Wake up.”

I am awake – thought Bronson.

It's just it never ends – he thought.

It will never end.
There will never be any peace, we’ll never get any better, there will never be a
chance to escape. We won't even try to escape while Berry is still alive.

No, no, no.

Not like this.
This isn't good.
That's enough.
Enough, now.

Yes...
It was about time he calmed down, finally.
And for real this time because he wasn't on his own. His friends were there too,
inside those Goddamned cages.
And Berry was much sicker than he was.
Yes... He had to pull himself together.
He had to do it for himself, and the others.
Most of all, for the others.

Berry took a deep breath, and then another one.

He and the others hadn’t just been a simple team for some time.
Some time ago, they had become brothers.
And he needed to keep fighting, not just for himself, but above all for all for them:
for his team mates, for his brothers.
And that's exactly what he was going to do.
He was going to fight once again. And he would fight that night, too.
He would fight until the end.

“Viper?” whispered Rambo.

“Yes.”
“Are you with us now?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”

Bronson arranged himself the best he could inside his cage in order to try to sleep

220
once more. And for the umpteenth time it did him no good whatsoever.

“Viper” John Rambo said in the end.

“Yes?”
“Who was this Lucy?”

221
Coletta was lying in the dark.
For hours, he’d been wishing he could brush off the termites that were biting him all
over, but he just couldn't.
He was too close to the VC's camp.
Where the fuck did he park himself this time?
On a fucking ant hill?

Christ – he thought.
Jesus Christ.

After three days on a mission and another nineteen days spent tailing the Vietcong
column, waiting for the best moment to strike, Coletta was both physically and
mentally destroyed.
He was thinner, dehydrated, and feverish by then.
He would have given everything he had just to sleep on his hammock that night, but
he was just too close to the enemy camp to sleep hanging from a tree like he had
during the previous nights.

But at least they aren't beating me every single damned day – he thought to himself.

But it wasn't a whole lot of consolation at that precise moment.

I’m going to attack tomorrow – he thought.

Today I conducted some good reconnaissance, and tomorrow I’ll finally try
something.

But tonight, his decision to spend so much time lying on the ground in order to
observe the VCs was a violation of one of the basic rules of jungle survival — never
sleep on the naked ground — and that was the reason why he was now covered in
ants, mosquitoes, and insects of all kinds on his hands, his neck and his face,
everywhere.
He could bend the rules, just this once.
But if he were to do something like this for too long, sooner or later some health issue
would have come up out of nowhere.

Another fifteen minutes – he thought.

Just another fifteen minutes and I swear I'll leave.

222
For the umpteenth time, Coletta ran through the sentries' positions. And for the
umpteenth time he confirmed he had everything under control.
Fort Bragg's training worked. It seriously worked.
The issue wasn't training.
The real issue was to maintain eyes on the Vietcong column while said column was
marching, but without ever being discovered.
The issue was collecting the water and food he needed to survive without being
discovered.
Studying an attack plan, but without being discovered.
Studying the escape routes after the possible rescue raid of his team mates, but
without being discovered.
And he had to do all of those things while—kilometer after kilometer—those damned
Vietcong were going deeper and deeper into the North, and everything was getting
progressively more difficult than it already was.
And yet, Coletta never regretted his decision to tail the Vietcong.
In the end that was almost certainly going to turn out to be a suicidal decision, and
yet Coletta never regretted it, not even for a second.
The only thing that he was really sorry about was the hanging issue with his family.

Before leaving for the mission, Ortega had told Trautman about the unresolved issue
of the visas his wife and nephews needed in order to immigrate to the US, but the
colonel had no obligation whatsoever to solve the problem on his own if Coletta
failed to come back alive from that particular mission.
At any rate, Coletta was already in the game by then, and continuing to turn that
matter over his mind was pointless.
Coletta could only put his hopes on Trautman at this point.
Besides, his friends were at risk of being tortured for years.
There were prisoners in Hanoi that were still being held after six incredibly long
years. And that was something Coletta couldn't even bear to think about.

Six years... longer than any war the US ever fought.

And inside Hanoi prisons, those poor devils were still tortured like it was day one.
Because that was what the secret reports that reached them from Hanoi used to say.

Jesus Christ – Coletta thought then while the ants continued to eat him alive with
ever growing enthusiasm as the minutes passed by.

And then there was the issue of his camouflage.

Had he not finally washed his uniform like God intended, the irritations that were
pestering the hell out of him already would have soon become a serious health issue.
Coletta needed to take a long overdue break.

223
He had to take a break for one or two days at least, just to recharge his batteries a
little bit, or sooner or later he would make a mistake. And then everything would
have gone to the dogs, and he had no intention of throwing everything to the dogs.

Coletta squinted his eyes in the dark while resisting to the temptation to remove a
termite from his forehead.

He had to strike, now or never...

...But he had to do it using his head. Because no matter how bad-ass a guy like him
might be, he could never defeat a whole team of guerrilla fighters like those on his
own.
Not even with the advantage given by terrain.
Not even with the advantage given by surprise.
Not to mention the risks danger he would be putting his teammates in by attacking
those damned Vietcong.

What a mess – thought Coletta.

He had to figure out how the VC were going to react.

He had to get a vague idea, at least, about the way the VC fought, before
disappearing to recharge his batteries.
Yes he did... A good old 'Hit & run' was what he needed.
He would have to do a Hit & Run just to see how the VC would react to it.
Just to test their defences.
There....
That might very well turn out to be a good idea.

224
The following day

225
That morning, it was cold.
Before the usual morning kicks and punches in the face — which the Baker team had
taken to calling by the cheerful nickname of 'the wake-up call' — that day, the
Vietcong made the prisoners form a line in a gloomy silence like they wanted to give
them a once-over before the day (and the beatings) started. As usual, upon getting out
of their cages Rambo, Ortega, and the others could barely stay on their feet.
Berry in particular had visibly worsened with the passing of days. He could just about
stand, but he did so with his eyes closed, as though asleep on his feet.
This seemed to be a day for whippings, because one of the VCs showed up with
some whips made from some strange plant that looked particularly well suited for the
purpose.
At this point, while one of the guards kept everyone in his crosshairs, Teeth and
Mouse began whipping the prisoners, starting with Ortega and Bronson.

Ortega screamed.
Bronson fell to the ground.

The Vietcong armed with an AK suddenly burst out laughing, but while he was still
laughing, his knee exploded in a thousand bloody pieces that scattered themselves all
around his leg.

A moment later, a supersonic bang echoed all over the valley.

And then, after an apparently inexplicable moment of delay, his leg separated itself
from the rest of his body, making the Vietcong fall sideways onto the ground.
Only then did the wounded Vietcong start yelling like a madman.

At first everyone — both the guards and prisoners — immediately threw themselves
to the ground searching for cover.
An instant later, all of the Vietcong in the camp started pouring a rain of lead in the
direction the shot had come from.
The PPSHs opened fire all at once, shooting practically in unison, and the resulting
volume of fire was impressive.
And while most of the Vietcong was shooting, those still in the open were running
away, searching for cover.

They may be rookies on many levels – thought Rambo as he hid behind a tree.
But they sure know how to pull out a 'React to Contact'.

226
Rambo shot a quick glance at Teeth, standing nearby. He was Messner's murderer.
Teeth had his back to Rambo — as distracted as he was by what was happening —
but he immediately drew a pistol from his belt.
All of the other guerrillas came rushing out of the jungle — including the ones who
were outside of the camp at the moment — and Commander Pham's orders could be
heard in the distance.
A moment later they were all still shooting in the direction from which had come the
single round that had just so badly wounded their comrade.
No... - thought Rambo.
Berry or not, there was no chance of escape at a time like this.
Rambo cursed to himself as he turned to look the other way.

“A sniper” said Bronson, standing next to him.

“He isn't a sniper,” said Ortega, looking in the direction of the shot.
“He’s our Sniper.”

And he was right.

In the heat of the moment, some members of Baker team hadn’t realized it yet, but
the, deep, loud thunder that had just echoed in the air belonged to a 7.62 NATO
calibre, shot from the barrel of an M14.

Please, God – thought Ortega.

Please tell me Coletta found a way to call for help.

But of course that couldn't be the case.

Because if that shooter was really Coletta, he was on his own for sure, or he never
would’ve attacked the way he did.

Jesus Christ.

God only knew how Coletta had managed to survive on his own in the jungle,
following the Vietcong column all of that time. It must have been a horrendous
experience. So tremendous Ortega preferred not to even try to imagine it.

The Vietcong started signalling to each other in order to organize their attack while
providing each other cover.
Teeth disappeared.

They’re good – Ortega concluded, just as Rambo had a moment before.

They’re really good, God damn it.

227
Ortega was particularly impressed by the fact that no one had instinctively gone to
help the wounded, which would have been a classic rookie mistake.
But none of those Vietcong was a rookie, of course, not even the kid who’d shot
Berry.

And so, that morning, Baker team didn't even try to escape. The only thing they had
behind their backs was a steep slope that was only good for getting themselves shot in
the back while trying to flee. And most of all — Berry or not — they had no real
escape plan at the moment.

And so, while some VCs were providing cover by shooting into the air, others carried
Ortega and his fellow prisoners away to a safe place in case the VCs were facing a
proper, full-force US rescue operation.
But it wasn't so.
And, what was worse, the Vietcong had just demonstrated that they could handle any
situation to perfection.

228
Half an hour later, the group of Vietcong led by Pham that had gone out searching for
the mysterious shooter returned to camp with another very seriously wounded man.
Hey had been wounded during the chase.
The guards started pacing nervously back and forth in front of Baker team, and the
looks they aimed at the prisoners were even more hateful than usual.
Meanwhile the screams of the wounded never ceased.
The stares became even more meaningful.
Despite not knowing the identity of their attacker, they would gladly have killed one
of the prisoners from sheer rage. It didn't matter which prisoner: being an American
would suffice.

Towards dusk, ten Vietcong left the group in order to finally take their two wounded
away on a couple of improvised stretchers.
That night, the Vietcong didn't even put their prisoners inside their cages, instead
leaving them tied to trees while they argued amongst themselves for hours into the
night.
The Baker team was too far away to eavesdrop, but the tones of their voices were
clear.

“Those guys are going to kill us,” said Bronson.

“Stay calm,” Ortega replied.

Ortega had been dreading the beginning of this conversation for a long time, and now
that it was finally here, he had no intention of facing it.

“Stay calm, guys,” he said to shut them up.

“We’re worth more alive”
“Tell that to Messner”

Ortega turned to Danforth and glared daggers at him.

“Stop being so rational, Skorpio. It doesn't always work like that,” his vice team
leader insisted.
“It wasn’t us who shot their mates” Westmore came to Ortega’s aid.
“And based on the shooter's behaviour, it didn't look like he was trying to save us”

229
“Coletta” Berry underlined in a whisper.
“You mean Coletta.”
“Of course”
“Stay calm” said Rambo.

Bronson turned to Ortega.

“Do you see that one, over there?” he said. He pointed at the guard who had been
tasked with keeping an eye on them for the time being.
“The Mouse?”
“Yes. Look at him very carefully” he said.
Then he continued:
“That guy doesn't give a shit that we have nothing to do with what happened, or how
valuable we really are: his friend lost a leg, and now he wants to kill somebody.”

But Bronson was wrong.

Pham was managing his men with an iron fist, so that night there were no incidents.

230
The following morning, the Vietcong had a massive argument about what to do next,
and then they remained tense for a long time.
Too long.
In fact, it was three days before the inevitable finally happened.

231
Twenty six days after the capture

232
It rained hard, that night.
It had seemed to be a day like any other: beatings in the morning, dishwater for
lunch, and VCs coming and going on patrol; and now that it was finally night time it
was pouring.

Flashes of lightning lit up the night from time to time and the wind howled through
the jungle, blowing against the soaking wet clothes of the prisoners tied to their trees.
No cages that night: the VCs were only using them as a form of punishment by then.

It was about three in the morning when out of the darkness came the sudden
screaming in Vietnamese.
Rambo, Ortega, and the others looked at each other questioningly and with some
concern as the screams got closer and closer to them.
At first, Baker team pretended not to understand what was going on, just like they
always did, but in reality they understood perfectly well what the VCs were
screaming about, of course.

Pham wasn't among those men.

One of them had just stepped on an American landmine, losing his life in the process,
and so when the three VCs drew close to the prisoners, they were arguing fiercely
with each other in the never-ending rain.
And now, Tran wanted to kill one of the prisoners.
Two of the VCs were unarmed, but Tran—the one willing to kill 'somebody'—was
brandishing an AK-47.

“I WANT TO KILL ONE!” he continued to repeat.

“I WANT TO KILL AN AMERICAN, GOD DAMN IT! I WANT TO KILL AT
LEAST ONE OF THEM!”

Rambo and the others shuddered against the trees they were tied to. Pham's absence
was making the situation potentially explosive, because he was the only one that
could have brought Tran back to reason in that moment.
A dog started barking on the other side of the camp, but was probably at risk of being
ignored by the rest of the camp.
The men of Baker team had never felt so trapped in their whole lives, not even
during their worst missions.

233
“Don't do it,” one of the two guerrilla fighters was saying.
“Don't do it, Tran! Don't!”
“Let me go.”
“Please, don’t.”
“Let me go! Let me go!”

Tran hate-filled look passed over the prisoners one by one — an unconscious Berry
included — despite the screams. And while every one of the prisoners had lowered
their gazes in order to avoid provoking the VCs, everyone was praying behind gritted
teeth not to be the one chosen.
Every member of Baker team, one by one, hoped the VC would decide to kill
somebody else.
Even Rambo — who had always been the most altruistic of the all of them — had
arrived at the point of praying that the VC would choose anyone but him, because it
was just too much. The idea of being put down like a dog in the dark and the rain, just
because one of the VC had completely lost it in Pham’s absence... All of this was just
too much even for him.

In the end Tran's mad stare landed on Danforth.

“Him. I want to kill him”

“No, Tran. Don't...”
“I think that asshole understands what we say. He’s understood us all along.”
“No Tran, don't do it” his two mates screamed, while trying in vain to pull his AK
upward.

Danforth shuddered once more against his tree while the guerrilla fighter kept getting
closer to him.

“No Tran, no…”

Danforth started pushing and twisting himself against the tree he was tied to, but he
couldn't move.

“NO! NO! PLEASE DON'T!” the prisoners were now screaming.

Everyone was now screaming: the Vietcong, the prisoners, everyone was screaming
in a cacophony of anger and powerlessness.
Tran cut the ropes that were tying Danforth, grabbed him by the scruff and then
dragged him up before throwing him violently down on the ground, in the mud.

Thunder echoed loudly in the sky, lightning illuminating the dark in the process. The

234
dogs continued to bark.

No – thought Danforth.
Tell me this isn't really happening.

Joseph Danforth’s arms and legs were still stiff from the hours spent tied to his tree
and he managed to raise his arms over his head as if trying to protect himself.
Was he really going to die this way?
Put down in the mud like this, like he was dog?

Shelley – he thought.
I love you, Shelley.
I love you, I love you, I love you.

Tran lift his AK level with Danforth's forehead, wet as it was in the rain.

Please Coletta, or whoever you are, please...

Please.
Please tell me that you’re here, and that you’re watching all of this, and that you’re
going to do something.

Danforth looked down the black of the AK's rain-dripping barrel.

A sudden light illuminated the night...But it was just lightning.

The thunder echoed practically at the same time. It was an obvious sign that the
lightning had struck right nearby. The storm was getting worse.

Danforth started, and then lifted his stare up to the sky.

You aren't here, are you, Coletta?

Of course you aren't.
Oh no, oh God no.
Why?

I have a son now, God.

Please, God.
Don't make my son an orphan.
Don't do this to me.

I am not the kind of man I used to be any longer, God.

It took me so long to get out of it.
It took me so long to set everything straight and pay my debts.
I know that I probably don't deserve it yet, but please God.

235
You can't do this to me.
Not now.

Don't do this to my Shelley and my son. Not now, please.

Don't do this to me after everything I had to get through in order to finally set my life
straight for good.

Because yes, Danforth had been a criminal.

He had never thought of himself as a bad person, and yet he knew very well that he
had been a true and proper criminal before becoming a soldier.
As a matter of fact, throughout his life Danforth had been a pusher, a pimp, a robber,
and a burglar. And only then, when he was staring in the face of death, could he
finally see how much it had cost him to change his life, how much effort he had put
in trying to get himself in line, restart from zero once again, and finally close the door
on his past for good... And then he’d met Shelley. And after being with her for one
year, they even had a son together.
Danforth couldn't die right now, not like this.

God, please.

How were his wife and son going to move forward without him? The world was a
horrible place, and they needed him desperately.
They needed him in order to survive.

“Please, no,” Danforth repeated, waving his raised hands.

“TURN AROUND!” shouted the Vietcong.
“TURN AROUND!”

But Danforth didn't turn around, and Tran’s shouting become even more furious than
before.
The other five Baker team members were screaming too by then. Even Berry was
screaming. Everyone was screaming.

In the end Tran grabbed Danforth and turned him around by force. Baker team's vice
team leader felt the cold barrel of the AK resting against the nape of his neck.

The rain didn't stop falling, nor the wind stop blowing.

Click!

The sound echoed deafeningly behind Danforth's back, giving him a painful start.

Jesus holy Christ.

236
His heart had literally missed a couple of beats, and Danforth was now feeling
completely emptied. A long stretch of silence followed.

Even the Vietcong had stopped shouting by then.

He spared me – thought Joseph.

It was just a feint, Holy Christ.

They do it, sometimes.

They do it just to drive you insane.
Ant it was true that it could make you insane.
It was absolutely true.

Danforth finally started breathing again.

Oh God.
Thank you, God.

Then a lightning bolt flashed in the sky and a rumble shook the air. It was like the
whole world exploded with it, or like an atomic bomb had just gone off. But the thing
was that it was no atomic bomb.
It was a shot.

Joseph fell to the ground in a pool of blood and grey matter, in front of the horrified
eyes of his team mates.

A gloomy silence surrounded everything.

No one dared to say a word, neither the prisoners nor the guards, and everyone closed
himself inside a gloomy, still silence.
Danforth had gotten that click sound wrong.
He thought he had just heard the click of an unloaded weapon, but it wasn't.
It was the click of the AK's safety being removed.

237
After that first, utterly endless stretch of silence Tran screamed another couple of
insults, then started kicking Danforth's corpse. Killing him hadn't enough for Tran.
Killing Danforth had been far from enough, and his dear friend who’d just been
blown up by a US-made mine was still dead (just as he had been a moment before),
and even kicking Danforth's corpse was giving Tran no real satisfaction.
It was like nothing in the world could take all of this pain away from him, nor the
exhaustion and desperation caused by this damn war that had gone on with no
interruptions for three decades, and which looked like it had no intention of ever
ending.
And all of this was because of the Americans.
Never
Never
Never – Tran chanted to himself like a madman.
Only then did he calm himself down a little.
He was short of breath by then, so upset was he.

Tran loudly coughed up some phlegm and spat, hitting Danforth's bloody beard
perfectly.

One of his team mates at his back put a hand on his shoulder.

“Let's go,” he said in Vietnamese.

“Let's go.”

And they finally went away for real, those Goddamned Vietcong bastards.

Danforth’s corpse stayed right where they left it.

And there it stayed for all of that very long night.

And then some.

238
 “Rambo”

“Yes”

“You’re my second, now” said Ortega.

Rambo nodded in the dark.

“Okay”

John Rambo and Manuel Ortega, 1971

239
The following morning Danforth's body was still there.
The VCs had left it there all night long as a form of further punishment, so to speak.
And there they were going to leave it for many more days to come.

240
The following morning, it was raining again.
The day was grey, the rain was light, and the smell of Danforth's corpse in the camp
had become unbearable.
That morning, Berry Delmore was very sick, and when the guerrilla fighters finally
came to untie the prisoners from their trees, Berry collapsed immediately in the mud,
half-conscious.
The Vietnamese all started yelling at him at the same time, but it was vain. He was
unconscious.
The Baker team shouted their protests at the VCs in English.
A short bout of screaming and pushing followed, between the five Baker team
survivors and the guards. In the end, the guerrilla fighters conceded to Westmore and
Bronson to go over to Berry for a while, at least.
Just the two of them.
And while the two men were aiding Delmore, giving him some water and examining
the state of his wound, Ortega looked for the umpteenth time at Danforth's corpse.

He was dead for just one night, but because of the warmth and rain, the body was
already starting to go white. And the smell was unbearable.
It was noxious.
Ortega had no idea how the VCs could stand it. Of course, they didn't sleep right
there, but the smell had to be obnoxious in their area too.
The only pro was that Danforth no longer looked like himself. And that was a good
thing for real, for Ortega's peace of mind. Except for when you looked Danforth right
in the face, like Ortega was doing in that moment.

Then you noticed his closed eyes (thank God they were closed) that were crooked
and swollen.
And you saw that his hair, beard, and overall look were still Danforth's, even if they
seemed shrunken.
Danforth was starting to look a little fake, so to speak. And so, in Ortega's mind it was
increasingly more difficult to link the corpse to his former friend's memory, even if it
wasn't entirely impossible.
Not yet.

No... - Ortega thought to himself.

That stinky, monstrous thing couldn't really be his friend. He wasn't Danforth any

241
longer.
Anyway, leaving him like that for a whole night in the rain was an inhuman thing to
do. An absolutely inhuman one.

“Maybe the time has come to amputate,” Rambo said next to him, stopping his
thoughts in the process.
“Berry's arm. Maybe it's better to amputate it,”

Maybe Rambo was right.

Stitching the wound, using larvae to clean it up... Maybe none of those things had
been enough, seeing as Berry now had a fever.
And that came as no surprise to anyone considering the conditions they were living
with.
It was then that Ortega was struck with remorse.
A sense of remorse and sickness at the same time.

Maybe they had made a mistake by surrendering.

The day they had been captured. Maybe surrendering that day had been a mistake.
Maybe fighting would have been a better choice.

No, no, and no – he protested to himself.

They had accomplished the mission.

They were going back home.
They were thinking only about surviving, and that was right.

But I lost two men – he thought bitterly.

I’ve already lost two men.

Ortega lowered his head, trying to stop that nervous cry that was at risk of starting,
and all of those thoughts (and the sickness, and the cold, and the vertigo...) that he…
It was then that Manuel Ortega realized he was feeling odd.
Yes, he was. That morning, there was something that was definitely out of order
inside him. Something very bad.

A big clot of mucus suddenly stopped Ortega's breath.

The team leader then spat on the ground and noticed that his spit was black and
green.

Jesus Christ – he thought to himself.

A lung infection.

242
Shit...
I caught the classic POW lung infection.

Ortega asked himself if the infection might be a deadly one. And if that was the case,
how much time he had left to live.
Then he looked at the others.

The four of them were all sick in one way or another.

Even Rambo’s face was paler and thinner.

The odds of surviving on their own in the jungle — if they ever got a chance to
escape — were getting slimmer by day, on par with the deteriorating of their health.

You did everything you could – said the team leader's voice inside his head.

Yes, maybe he had.

Or maybe what they were going through at the moment was even worse than dying.
And so, maybe his decision to surrender was the worst decision he’d ever made as a
team leader.

At any cost – said Trautman's voice all of a sudden inside of him.

Ortega was remembering the survival, resistance, and escape course: Fort Bragg,
1967.

At any cost and for all of the time needed, no matter the price you will have to pay,
you will never ever stop fighting for survival until the end.
Even when death starts looking like a blessing, you will damn well keep fighting until
the end.
At any cost.
And by any means.

Ortega fell to the ground, unconscious.

And then Trautman's shadow stood up on his feet above him, silhouetted against the
rain that was still falling over his half-closed eyes.

Are we going to train in Vietnam too, Sir?

For all your life, soldier. He who stops is lost.
What kind of price are you ready to pay, Ortega?
Any, Sir.
No, it isn't true – said Trautman.

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And as a matter of fact it wasn't.
Ortega had caused Messner's, Danforth's, and probably all of his team’s deaths
already.
He had almost certainly caused the death of his whole team.

You think that – said the colonel's shadow above him.

But it isn't the truth.
How many of them do you think you saved by surrendering?
I... I don't know, Sir.
I will know it the day all of this comes to an end... Provided that any of us ever makes
it through this.
Correct.
And what are you going to do until then, soldier?

Ortega tilted his head a little in the mud as he continued to hallucinate.

I... I will study the next move, Sir.

Bravo, private.
And you will keep doing it at any cost.
And I will tell you more, Manuel Ortega.
You knew from the start that it was going to be just like this.
We told you back in Fort Bragg that that was the way it was going to be.
You knew it, and yet you were willing to give all of yourself for your team, anyway.
And so I am going to ask once again, Manuel Ortega... Are you still the leader of this
team?

Yes I am, Sir.

Really?
Because that isn't the way it looks to me, son.
It seems to me that you’re giving it all up, private.
Look into my eyes, Ortega.
I said look into my eyes.
You will never be my team leader.
Danforth will be the team leader in your place.

Ortega reopened his eyes up a little.

Once upon a time, Danforth had been the team leader, a long time ago. And now his
friend Joseph Danforth's corpse was lying in the muddy square a short distance away
from him, in the rain and stinking like a sewer.
Ortega didn't want to end up like him.

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He didn't want to end up in that mud, to be left there like that to rot.

I will do anything, Sir.

I will suffer any pain.

Then get the fuck up, because it isn't over.

Not yet.
Make your men survive, Ortega.
Make as many as you can survive.
They have relatives, friends, families. You do too.
And if even one of them makes it, then you will have done your fucking duty, God
damn it.

And so, with an almost inhuman effort, Ortega finally planted his hands in the mud.
Fatigue, cold, pain... His whole body was screaming with pain from head to toe, but
Ortega finally got back up staggering a little on his feet.

Then he turned and saw Rambo, Bronson, Westmore, and Berry looking terrified in
his direction. They were all worried about him. Even Berry was back to his senses
now and looking worriedly at him from the ground.

Ortega nodded just a little, as if to say that yes, he had lost his mind for a moment,
but that now everything was okay.

“I’m fine,” he eventually said in a whisper.

But Rambo looked him right in the eyes, like he didn't believe him.

“It was just a moment” said Ortega.

“I feel better now. It won't happen again.”

245
That night, Rambo dreamed.
This time it was a vivid dream, and so real.
Too real.

Rambo was lying in bed and the Vietnamese girl standing above him was exactly as
beautiful as he remembered.
She was tiny, as all Asian girls are. Tiny and beautiful.
She removed her clothes standing in front of him, and then she sat next to him on the
bed.
She stretched her hand out to Rambo's face and stroked it tenderly, while he watched
her in silence.

Her breasts were small and her hair was long and dark over her white skin.

She knelt over Rambo and her face came so close to his that his vision blurred when
she kissed him.

Rambo – came the disembodied voice.

The sound of his own name was almost threatening just then in John's mind.

Don't forget me, Rambo.

It was then that Rambo remembered. It was in that precise moment.

She was the 'tea girl' that Rambo had dated briefly in '69. She had died during the
Dak To offensive, when he and Ortega were trying to help the wounded during the
terrorists attack. While fleeing the VCs, Ortega had almost smashed himself on the
ground swinging on electric cables to get from that roof to another.
She had been one of the very few tea girls in Vietnam that Rambo had ever been with
more than once. That was before Layla, of course. Before he fell in love with Layla.
And Rambo had watched that girl die, too.

I told you not to forget me.

Then she started moving sinuously over him while the pleasure was starting inside of
him. Her body was as wonderful as it had been back then, and the vision of that
wonderful body magically started melting itself into the pleasure that Rambo was

246
feeling at the moment, making everything more wonderful in the process. But was he
really having an erotic dream that night? Was it even possible?
It was then that another image flashed into being, replacing that beautiful scene.

The flash of a corpse on the floor beneath him, and in the sights of his 1911, held
tight in his hand, locked and loaded with its hammer cocked like a bomb ready to
explode between his hands.

What?

Had he really killed her?

Of course he had.

He remembered that. And yet, he hadn't actually killed her himself.

She had been torn to pieces by an explosion already, and he had just struck the final
blow, sparing her from countless hours of pointless agony.

After that night you swapped your 1911 for a Hi-power – said the soldier inside of
him.
In order to have more rounds in the magazine.

Now you know why – replied another voice.

But that wasn't all. Not even close.

There was something else, too.
Yes, there was.
Because after he shot the woman, Rambo had shifted his aim to something else.

No, no, no...

Something he had entirely removed from his mind by then, but that night, during that
dream, it was coming back to the surface like some dead algae detaching from the
bottom of an underground sea.
There had been something else beside her, that night.
Something dark, small, and shapeless was moving itself in front of his feet.
Yes, there has been something else on that floor, that night.
And no gun in the world would ever protect him from that vision.

I told you not to forget about me - repeated her voice as his gun trembled in his hand.

A sharp pain passed through Rambo's abdomen from one side to the other. It was a
slicing pain, like a deep ulcer inside his stomach, while in the real world Rambo was
struggling inside his cage in vain.

247
Don't forget about me – she repeated inside his head.
No...
Don't forget a thing.

There was something small and shapeless that was moving in the darkness in front of
his feet, and it writhed and moaned...

Nooo...

My son, John Rambo.

The dismembered limbs of the newborn blown to pieces by the Vietcong bomb were
now spinning lazily at his feet like a slow-motion film.
That night in Dak To, Rambo took his aim in a trance-like state before putting an end
to the newborn’s suffering too.

You killed my son – she said.

And he had, indeed. Of course he’d killed him.

That night two years ago in Dak To in1969, Rambo had killed a newborn that had just
lost his arms and legs in order to put him out of his useless misery in an instant, rather
than leaving him to die slowly.
He had shifted his aim from the mother to the son and shot a second forty-five calibre
round that he’d later completely forgotten about. Or he had until that night in North
Vietnam, at least. And most of all, it was real.
That was no dream.
It was very real indeed.

Rambo started crying behind his bamboo bars as he dreamed.

He started sobbing and hiccupping, but unfortunately for him, it wasn't enough to
wake him up.

Rambo had shot that creature that was so small and yet entirely human already, so
small and yet suffering like an animal anyway.
And most of all...The way he’d cried...
He had cried like a Goddamn adult.
It was as if, by getting his arms and legs torn away by an explosion, even a newborn
could suddenly turn himself into an adult capable of screaming, shaking, and - most
of all - suffering like an adult.
What Rambo had just done put him into a trance-like state while he had finally put an
end to all of that horror, all of that suffering and that horrible vision, too — a vision
that might have been capable of destroying his mind like a terrible disease inside of

248
him.

You did it because it was the right thing to do, right Rambo?
Or maybe you did it just to put all of that horror to an end?
Maybe you did it just for yourself.

Rambo couldn't breathe any longer.

It was like he was dying in the real world too, and not just in his dream.
He had forgotten it all for more than a year. And what he had done was even worse
than forgetting. Because you don't forget something like that; you literally remove it.
And Rambo had removed it entirely.

He would have died anyway – he said to himself in his cage, without realizing.

He was talking to himself in his sleep now, but his words were coming out of his
mouth for real.

You shot your own son, Rambo – replied the woman's voice in the dream.

The little body torn to pieces was still moving at his feet in the dream.
Your son.
Rambo saw everything again and no, that wasn't his son.
He couldn't be his son.
He had always been careful.
Oh yes, he absolutely had.

Rambo felt the pistol kick inside his hand, saw the muzzle flash once more and the
pieces of the newborn dart all around as if the bullet had disintegrated the little
thing(and maybe that was possible, considering how little that tiny body actually
was, compared to a forty-five calibre bullet. Maybe that was really what happened).
The tiny creature below him stopped moving in the same instant. And because of the
richness of detail in that night's dream Rambo had no doubts any longer about
whether he was really remembering. None at all.
What he was dreaming was exactly what had happened.
That was the true reality he had banished from his mind for almost two years.

And so Rambo woke himself up by shaking and shouting like a maniac inside his
cage as the rain fell down hard upon him.

“AAAAAH!”

249
He had shot a newborn. He’d killed him and then he had removed that horrible
memory for almost two years, but that night the memory had come back to the
surface like a debt he had to settle sooner or later.
Rambo screamed again, this time even louder than before.

“AAAAAAAARGHH”

Because this was real, not fantasy.

It was reality.

“Rambo,” said Bronson in a whisper, trying to stretch one hand out to his friend in
vain.
“UUUAAAAHRG!”
Rambo's voice was now broken by an uncontrollable cry.
“I KILLED HIM! I KILLED HIM! I KILLED HIM!!”
“Rambo? What's happening Rambo?”
“Jesus Christ,” said Ortega.
“Johnny, you listen to me, Johnny”
“You don't understand! I killed him! He was three months old at best! THREE
MONTHS!”
“Did you fall asleep, Johnny? You shouldn't have. It's too cold.”
“It was just a dream, Johnny,” said Westmore.
“IT WAS NO DREAM!”
“Of course it was a dream. Calm down, Rambo. Calm down.” Ortega continued.
“IT WAS REAL!”
“Rambo, please. The Vietcong.”
“It was no dream,” Rambo concluded in a whisper.

His heart was starting to slow itself down.

Now, he was exhausted.
The dream had exhausted him.

“It was no dream,” he repeated.

“You...”
“You can't understand”

Rambo’s eyes darted around in fright as he was slowly coming back to reality.
From that night on, he was doomed to live with that memory.
And if, by some cursed twist of fate he was going to survive this captivity and one
day return to the US, he was going to have to live with that memory for the rest of his
days on this earth.

“You can't understand,” he said in a whisper.

250
 John Rambo and May, 1969

251
As the nights wore on, Danforth started to bloat and stink more and more until the
stench started making Rambo and the others retch.
This, of course, made the nights inside those damn cages even more endless and
interminable than they already had been.

By the seventh day after his death, thanks to the warmth and rain, Danforth was now
swollen like a football and gushing blood from his mouth and nose.
That night, the first jungle animal came almost into the middle of the cages in order
to get it's very first bite of what had once been Joseph Danforth's right hand.
The scream of a distant guard made the little creature run away.

Luckily for them, all of this came to an end that very same morning because the stink
of rotten meat had finally started to reach the accommodations of the Vietcong
themselves.
Only then did the Vietcong decide to make what had once been Joseph Danforth
disappear.

252
Three days later

253
Despite the removal of Danforth’s body, the camp had become unbearable by then
anyway.
It was all peppered with faeces thanks to the continuous incontinence suffered by
practically all five of the prisoners, along with mucous and pus caused by the
various infections that they were all afflicted with by then.

For the first time since they had been captured, that morning the Vietcong brought the
prisoners to a small, nearby river and gave them a tiny triangle of soap that had to be
enough to wash themselves and their clothes, too.
They gave them two little pieces of glass too, in order to shave their beards and cut
their hair.

And so the team plunged into the water and started washing themselves in grim
silence.
Rambo was the first to be able to use his piece of glass, and started shaving himself
badly.

“Give me that,” said Ortega.

The team leader then started scraping Rambo's neck with the piece of glass, shaving
off his beard while Bronson washed Berry, who was barely able to stand on his feet in
the water.

The swelling in Berry's arm had gone down a little, but the black man had become a
walking skeleton, and even the gentle current of the stream seemed capable of
dragging him away at any moment.

And while Baker team was washing and shaving, everyone was silent.
Only the water was speaking.

Ortega paused a moment in order to cough a little.

He coughed once, twice, three times in a row, and then spat a big chunk of dark
mucus into the water below him.
He obviously had something very wrong with his lungs.
Rambo was going to say or do something, but Ortega raised one hand to stop him
and said that he was fine.

“The moustache. Do you want to keep 'it, John?”

254
Rambo thought about it for a moment, then he nodded.
Despite everything, he still wanted to give it a try.
He still wanted to try being human.

“Done, Rambo.” said Ortega when he was finished.

A little later, the guards that were keeping their guns trained on the men started
waving their PPSH submachineguns at their sides as if saying that it was time to
move.

255
That night, Rambo was cold in his cage.
The VCs had put him inside one of the biggest cages, away from the other ones.
Rambo was frighteningly skinny by then, his legs were swollen from malnutrition
and his mind was coming and going.
But most of all, his energy was gone.
He had spent years working out like hell in order to build himself a body that was a
war machine, and now a single month of torture and disease had thrown everything
out the window.
What if they tried to escape tomorrow, or even that very same night?
Was he going to be able to walk, or even fight if necessary?
Was he even able to think straight?
Was he able to aim, or were his hands going to shake like they were doing at that
particular moment?

Rambo found no answer to any of these questions.

It was then that he saw two small eyes appear in the dark right in front of him.
Two small, innocent, helpless eyes close to the ground, that were getting closer and
closer his cage.

John lifted his head behind the bamboo bars, surprised by that presence.

It was the Vietcong's dog, the one that had captured them all.
Rambo hadn't seen him again since the day of his capture.
By appearance he was the classic Vietnamese dog: some kind of 'dwarf' dog when
compared to the usual American military dogs, which were all German shepherds.
There were just four dog breeds in Vietnam, and of course Rambo knew everything
about all four of them. The one in front of him was a sentry dog. A 'tracker' dog.
He was no guard dog for sure, and even less a fighting dog.
He was the kind of dog that was only used for chasing, or sounding an alarm.
And he was the one who had got him and his entire team caught by the Vietcong.

The dog stopped one step away from the cage with a perplexed look in his eyes,
while Rambo started to evaluate his options.

Even if Rambo was able to lure the dog close enough to break his neck, he couldn't
eat a creature that big. And eating it raw? No way.
It was too cold. If he eat any raw meat in that moment he would just throw it up, and

256
that would have been it.
He needed to cook it, but that of course was out of the question.
Not to mention that God only knew what the VCs would do to him if he killed one of
their dogs.

And so, after losing interest in eating the dog, Rambo stretched his hand a little out of
the bamboo cage.

The dog inched closer, suspiciously.

He first smelled Rambo's hand.

And then, after a long moment, he began to gently Rambo's hand.
What?
It was almost like...it was almost like an apology.
An apology for what he had done to Rambo almost a month ago when he had caught
him and his team.

Rambo released a soft sob.

The dog got even closer to him.

He got so close to the bamboo bars that he almost squeezed himself against them, and
then he curled up into a ball next to the cage to sleep beside Rambo. And the warmth
of his fur — despite the bars in the middle — was the most glorious feeling in the
world to John.

It was then that Rambo finally burst into quiet sobs.

He let go and wept freely and unrestrained, a real and true return to humanity. In
truth, his sobs were causing him considerable pain because his stomach was still
hurting him... But his tears were liberating regardless.
Rambo could still feel something.
He was still capable of being human, and that night he found this out in the warmest
and most painful of ways.

257
It was dark when the image appeared in front of Rambo's eyes.
It was dark, and yet it appeared right in front of him, clear, bright, and sharp.
And most of all, it appeared to him just as he remembered it.

“So what, John? How did it go? Did she know what she was doing, or what?” Rourke
asked him as the two of them were leaving the brothel.
“It wasn't the way I thought it would be” Rambo answered.
“It never is. I mean, the first time,” said Rourke.

Rourke gave Rambo a friendly elbow as they walked on.

“Come on, tell me.”

“I don't know if I enjoyed it.”
“Oh come on, idiot.”
“I don't know... After a while it's like... You don't even look into each other’s eyes. It
was like she was doing it on her own.”
“Jesus Christ, John. Not even my father says things like that. And he’s been married
for the last ten years. You need to find the right one in order to get those kind of
things, not one of these”

Rambo didn't know what to say, and so he didn't say anything.

“Also, Vietnam isn't the place to search for the right woman, for sure. Vietnam is the
place for fun.”

Rambo opened his eyes inside his cage, distraught. He had almost forgot about
Rourke.
Jesus Christ, how horrible... But at least it was no Dak To's newborn. At least, that
night, he didn't dream about the newborn in Dak To. Rambo wouldn’t survive another
dream about that.
Rambo's back was still warm, and when he turned around the dog was still there,
sleeping against his back.

Rourke...

258
Rourke was dead, of course.
They were all dead.

They aren't all dead.

It isn't true.
Just some of them.

Why was he always thinking about that shit?

What the hell had got into him to mess with his head like that ?
His friends from his first tour of duty weren't all dead.
Many had survived his first tour of duty. Lots.

Almost half.

259
What's happening to me? – Rambo thought to himself a few moments later.

I’m going insane.

I’m losing my mind.

And that was something they never taught him in Fort Bragg.
They told him that some got to the point of wanting to die. Yes, they had told him
that, and when Rambo was captured he knew very well that it could happen to him,
too, because no one believed in what they were teaching them as much as he used to.
He always believed everything, even the most absurd things, when they were taught
by Garner or Trautman in person.
Yet, nobody had ever told him about the possibility of going mad, and that was way
different from thinking about suicide.
Suicide was almost a normal thing when you were at war. But going insane...that
wasn't normal.
That was a new thing which Rambo never thought he would have to deal with.
And he could feel this thing inside of him already.
Day after day, Rambo could feel his mind getting further and further away with his
thoughts. Not to mention his dreams.
After that first, horrible nightmare that had brought his memories of Dak To back to
the surface, Rambo was continuously having horrible nightmares every single night.
Even twice a night.
He had no more doubts by then: he was at risk of becoming insane.
And for the first time ever in his life, none of Fort Bragg's teachings were going to
help him. None of them was ever going to help him with what lay ahead of him.

Calm down – he thought to himself.

You aren't on your own.

Your friends are in here, too. Inside the cages behind your back.
And maybe Coletta is still out there, too.
Also, you’re the vice team leader now.
And as long as there’s still a team, you....
You will have a mission.
And this is going to be the reason why you are never, ever going to give up...
Not for your own sake.

260
Because, when the moment comes, we are going to strike – he thought to himself.

And we will do it with no remorse, no hesitation, no regrets.

We will do it without making a single mistake, like machines. Just like we did all of
the other times.
This time will be just like all the others.
With Ortega leading, Bronson covering us, and all the rest.
Like we always did.
Because you are never going to surrender, John.

As long as there is still a Baker team, you still have a mission to accomplish, and
that’s that.

261
Three days later

262
That evening, Baker team was collecting wood for the umpteenth time in front of the
camp when Vietnamese screaming suddenly started echoing at their backs.
In the beginning they sounded like they were coming from far away, but they soon
started getting closer and even more furious than before. In the end the Vietcong
rushed in the middle of the prisoners, who were still collecting wood exactly as they
had done for countless days.
Teeth — the little kid that had killed Messner - the Mouse, and all of the others came
in with guns blazing, as if the prisoners were doing God only knows what. Berry was
sitting on the ground with his back against a tree, lying still as though half-asleep.
Rambo, Ortega, Westmore, and Bronson were gathering wood just like they had been
told to do, and all of that screaming and weapons aimed at them caught them
unawares.

Fearing the worst, their eyes went to each other’s fast, and then all went to Ortega's,
waiting for his signal.

But Ortega had no answers for them at that moment.

And, in all honesty, he had far more important issues to think about at the moment.
Like how to remain standing on his own two feet, for instance. Jumping on all of
those armed guards was out of question, just like fleeing or whatever else they were
thinking about trying.
That day Ortega had in fact been stumbling and teetering all morning (he’d been
having balance issues for days by this point) and figuring out what the hell was
happening was out of the question for Ortega at the moment.

Realizing immediately what Ortega's lost look meant, Rambo took over for his team
leader by making a clear downward-pointing fist gesture (everybody stay put) to his
mates.

It's lucky Johnny’s here – Ortega thought to himself, fully aware that he couldn't think
straight at the moment.
Because I am really struggling right now.
Like they all were, all things considered.

This lung infection is killing me.

At this point in time, the Vietcong surrounded their prisoners, yelling with their guns
levelled and then they made them get on their knees with their hands in the air, as if
they’d only just captured them.

263
But why? – Ortega asked himself.

It was then that twenty North Vietnamese regular soldiers suddenly made their
entrance into the prison camp. And Ortega finally had an answer to his 'why?'

Twenty, forty, sixty men... They were a whole army.

An actual army on the move.

They entered the camp, looking around like they were just some curious guests.
But guests of the invading kind, because it was clear from the way they were moving
that they were the ones in command here, and not the Vietcong.
They were marching into the camp like an invading army into a territory it had just
conquered, and looking around like in truth everything in there belonged to them.

Jesus Christ – thought Ortega, while looking at the series of brand-new AKs and
clean uniforms.

These guys have never even fought before.

And for the first time since he had been in this camp, Ortega felt a feeling very
similar to fear.
Because this team weren't a bunch of untrained criminals.
This was the enemy.
The real one.

264
 RAMBO YEAR ONE

LAST KNOWN ALIVE

PART I

265
THE END

266
NEXT

267
- The ending of Year One -

268