Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham

      “If we move now they will hear,” Sau said.

      Nguyen turned the options over in his mind. “So we can fight them now in the dark or wait and fight them in the light of morning. Either way, we will have carried these weapons all this way for nothing.”

      Sau glanced around the tree again. “There may be another way,” he said.

      Nguyen grasped Sau’s shoulder and pulled him around. “If you have an idea, you won’t ever find me more willing to listen.”

      “If their sentries weren’t so close we could move on, and there is a chance the main unit would not hear us.”

      “But they are close,” Nguyen said.

      Sau drew his thumb across his own neck under his chin. “Then we change that.”

      Nguyen seized on the idea like a drowning man to a lifeline. “It will have to be done silently, without alerting the other Americans.”

      “It will be difficult,” Sau said.

      “But it can be done?”

      Sau shrugged resignedly. “Do we have a choice?”

       7

      The three Marines settled on the flattest piece of real estate they could find—six feet of level ground with a couple of small trees that didn’t eat up the space. “Who wants the first watch?” Tanner asked, making himself comfortable with his back to one of the trees. “Nobody? Okay, I’ll take it.” The first watch was the easiest because everybody was still alert and the dark and the boredom hadn’t had time to work on the need for sleep. In three or four hours it would be a different story. “Hey, new guy. Do you have a wristwatch?”

      DeLong moved in close. “Yeah, I have a watch. And the name’s DeLong.”

      “Okay, Deeeee Long. Give it here.”

      DeLong hesitated. Someone he didn’t know or trust was asking him for his watch, and it made him leery. It wasn’t a family heirloom or even a very expensive watch—his father had bought it for him at the Sears in Milwaukee—but it was something from home, something the Marines had not issued. It was a connection, one he did not want to lose.

      “Come on,” Tanner said impatiently. “You’ll get it back when the Chief wakes you.”

      DeLong reluctantly unbuckled the band and handed over the watch.

      The watch face was black with white numerals and hands, and Tanner held it out and rocked the crystal in a shaft of moonlight. “This’ll work. I’ll wake the Chief in two hours. He’ll wake you in four. I would give you the second shift, but then you would have to wake the Chief, and that can be tricky. Who knows what he would do in the night to someone he didn’t recognize. Right, Chief?”

      A few feet away, the Chief cleared a spot so he could stretch out. The ground was wet, and he lay back on his flak jacket and balanced his head on his upturned helmet. It wasn’t comfortable, but it would do. He didn’t answer.

      DeLong spread out his flak jacket and lay down on his side. He wrapped his arms around his body, tucking his hands into his armpits, trying to stay warm. His body heat had baked some of the wet out of his clothes, but they were still damp enough to make him shiver when a breeze invaded, or when he thought of where he was. He couldn’t imagine being more miserable.

      Tanner sat cross-legged against a tree with his rifle on his lap. He tilted his head back and sniffed. “Damn. It smells like something died around here,” he said.

      The lieutenant reported his position to the com shack in An Hoa, calculating the distance and direction from his last thrust point and making sure the 155 batteries had 1st Platoon’s grid coordinates marked on their maps. It paid to be able to get quick fire support in case things went wrong, and in the Arizona, they tended to go wrong in a hurry.

      The two M60 machine guns were in position, the watches were assigned, and claymore mines had been placed in likely approaches. More than half the platoon was now asleep. The extra radio went with the listening post on the lower slope, and Bronsky checked with them every half hour for situation reports. The radios were turned down to their lowest squelch settings, and only Bronsky spoke. “Pounder to backfield. Pounder to backfield,” Bronsky whispered. “Sit rep. If your position is secure, key your handset twice.”

      A short silence was followed by two distinct bursts of static.

      “Roger, backfield. Back in thirty. Out.” There would be no contact with the other LP until morning.

      Though it wasn’t raining, moisture was thick in the air, a physical entity the Marines could reach out and touch. It made breathing more difficult. It clung to their skin and seeped into the fabric of their clothing. It made the air itself visible. It accumulated on the leaves and wept down from their drooping tips. It also impeded sound. Faint noises would spend all their energy fighting their way through the heavy, wet air, giving the slightest of whispers very little hang time. It made everything seem close and claustrophobic. It made the jungle feel alive and the Marines feel even more isolated than they were.

      Strader sat on the side of his cot looking through the screening into the blackness west of the wire. A few Marines from 3rd Platoon were asleep at the other end of the hooch, their breathing steady and deep as though regulated by a metronome. The rest were manning the lines. The base was completely dark. Some Marines were at their watches, monitoring radio frequencies, tracking units in the bush. Some were in bunkers, watching and waiting. The rest were in their racks and grateful to be there. Strader felt he was the one Marine out of place. He slipped out the door and walked to the embankment above the runway. Cloud shadows sweeping along the dark aluminum plates gave the runway a sense of movement like a channel of running water. The illusion was only slightly spoiled by a breeze coming across one of the two-hole latrines that carried the smell of fuel oil, fried maggots, and the menu from the evening mess processed through a few dozen Marines. Strader scratched at the ground with the tread on his Ho Chi Minh sandals. In a few days he would be on his way back to the world and Vietnam would be nothing more than a year of bad memories. But as he stood looking into the endless night of the distant Arizona, he had never felt so far from home.

      Nguyen and Sau crept through their unit, carefully rousing each man in turn as they went. Before long, all were up and alert, listening as Nguyen laid out their situation in detail. They would get their equipment ready to travel without making a sound, then wait in absolute silence for the order to move while Sau and a group of his choosing dealt with the problem. Whether noise would matter when the order to move came would depend on the success of the night’s work, and that could be hours away. Pham and Truong listened intently.

      “I volunteer to go with Sau,” Pham said.

      Nguyen pretended not to hear. He nodded to Sau, who went through the group making his selections. It was evident from the speed of his choices that Sau already knew which men he wanted.

      Pham didn’t like being ignored. “I said I’ll go.”

      Nguyen moved close to Pham. “This is by invitation only, and you aren’t invited.”

      “I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” Pham said.

      “And I don’t care that you don’t care.”

      Sau whispered to Co and two others, Binh and Duong, and sent them to prepare. Another man stepped out of the shadows. His leathery skin was the color of bronze, and his unusually high cheekbones gave his face a perpetual squint.

      Nguyen put a hand on his shoulder. “Vo, you make five.”

      Vo