Midnight Runner. Jack Higgins

hold things here as long as I can.’

      Jackson didn’t even argue. ‘Let’s move it, Sister,’ and she didn’t argue either.

      Quinn watched them go, the children greatly upset, some crying. They scrambled across the crumbling wall, and he took a grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin. He heard the sound of an engine and when he peered round the wall, a battered jeep was coming up the street, two Vietcong standing up at a machine gun behind the driver. God knows where they’d got it from, but more Vietcong sheltered behind. They started to fire, and Quinn tossed the grenade at the last possible moment. It dropped neatly into the jeep and there was a hell of an explosion, bits of the vehicle and broken men tossed in the air, flames everywhere.

      The rest of the Vietcong ran for their lives. A silence descended, with only the rush of the rain. Time to go. Daniel Quinn turned, ran to the crumbling wall, scrambled across, and made for the reeds. A moment later, he jumped into those reeds, pausing only to fit his bayonet to the M16, then he plunged forward.

      Sister Sarah Palmer led the way, holding the hand of one child and carrying the smallest, the others following. She spoke softly to them in Vietnamese, telling them to be quiet. Jackson followed at the rear, M16 ready.

      They came out into a dark pool and she stood there, thigh deep, her habit hitched up to her belt. The rain thundered down, and there was a kind of white mist. She looked over her shoulder at Jackson.

      ‘If I’ve got my bearings, there should be a road over to the right.’

      ‘And what good will that do, Sister? They’ll run us down, and to be honest, I’m more concerned about Quinn. There hasn’t been a shot fired since that explosion.’

      ‘Do you think he’s dead?’

      ‘I sure as hell hope not.’

      Suddenly, a young Vietcong stepped out of the reeds behind him, a bayonet on the end of his AK, and stabbed Jackson in the back under the left shoulder blade, missing his heart by inches. He cried out and went down on his knees. On the other side of the pool, three more VC emerged, all very young, one of them a girl, clutching AKs.

      Jackson tried to get up, using his M16 as a crutch. In silence, the Vietcong watched gravely, then there was a sudden savage cry and Quinn burst out of the reeds, firing from the hip, ravaging all three in a kind of slow motion. The fourth, the one behind, surged forward, too late, as Quinn turned and bayoneted him.

      Quinn put an arm around Jackson. ‘How bad is it?’

      ‘Hurts like hell. But I’m still here. There are some battle packs in my bag, but I think we’d better get out of here first.’

      ‘Right.’ Quinn turned to Palmer. ‘Move out, Sister.’

      She did as she was told, following with the children. They came to a shallower spot, a knoll sticking out of the water. There was room for all of them. Jackson sat there and Quinn ripped at the jagged rent left by the bayonet, exposing the wound.

      ‘Battle packs in the bag?’

      Sister Sarah Palmer reached for it. ‘I’ll handle it, Sergeant.’

      ‘Are you sure, Sister?’

      She smiled for the first time. ‘I’m a doctor. The Little Sisters of Pity is a nursing order.’

      Behind in the reeds, they heard many voices, like foxes crying. ‘They’re coming, Sarge,’ Jackson said, clutching his rifle and leaning over as she went to work on him.

      ‘Yes, they are. I’ll have to put them off.’

      ‘How can you do that?’ Sister Sarah asked.

      ‘Kill a few at random.’ Quinn took a couple of flares from his pocket and gave them to Jackson. ‘If the cavalry make it and I’m not back, get the hell out of here.’

      ‘Oh, no, Sergeant,’ Sister Sarah said.

      ‘Oh, yes, Sister,’ and he turned and plunged into the reeds.

      He could have used his bayonet, a silent killing, but that wouldn’t have caused the panic he needed. His first target was providential, two VC standing so that they could survey the marsh, their heads and shoulders above the reeds. He shot both in the head at a hundred yards.

      Birds lifted in the heavy rain, voices called to each other in anger from various areas. He selected one and moved in, shooting another man he found wading along a ditch. He got out fast, easing across the reeds, crouched by another pool and waited. Special Forces had developed a useful trick for such situations. You learned a few Vietnamese phrases as fluently as possible. He tried one now and fired a shot.

      ‘Over here, comrades, I’ve got him.’

      He waited patiently, then called again. A few moments later, three more men appeared, wading through the reeds cautiously.

      ‘Where are you, comrade?’ one of them called.

      Quinn took out his last grenade and pulled the pin. ‘Here I am, you bastards,’ he cried in English and lobbed the grenade. There were cries as they tried to scramble away and the grenade exploded.

      By now there were shouts everywhere, as the panic he had sought for set in. As he moved on, he saw a road, Vietcong scrambling onto it. He eased back into the reeds to get his bearings and became aware of engines throbbing close by, but by then the late afternoon light was fading and it combined with the tropical rain to reduce everything to minimum visibility. A flare shot into the air, disappearing into the murk, a Huey Cobra gunship descended three hundred yards away and he heard others whirling above, but the Huey was too far away, and he plunged forward desperately, already too late.

      The flare that Jackson had fired had worked, and two crewmen jumped out of the Huey and bundled the children inside quickly, followed by Sister Sarah.

      The black crew chief lifted Jackson by the arms. ‘Let’s get out of here, man.’

      ‘But the Sergeant’s still out there, Sergeant Quinn.’

      ‘Hell, I know him.’ Shooting started again from the reeds and bullets thudded into the Huey. ‘Sorry, man, we’ve got to go. It’ll be dark any time and we’ve got to think of these kids.’

      He raised Jackson to the waiting hands that pulled him in, followed and called to the pilot at the controls, ‘Let’s go.’

      The Huey lifted. Jackson was actually crying and Sister Sarah leaned over him anxiously.

      ‘But what about the sergeant?’ she said.

      ‘There’s nothing we can do. He’s dead, he’s got to be dead. You heard all that shooting and the grenade exploding. He took on all those bastards single-handed.’ The tears poured down his cheeks.

      ‘What was his name?’

      ‘Quinn, Daniel Quinn.’ Jackson moaned in agony. ‘Christ, but it hurts, Sister,’ and then he passed out.

      But Quinn was still in one piece, mainly because the enemy had assumed he’d escaped in the Huey. He made it to the river as darkness fell, thought about it, then decided that if he was to stand a chance he needed to be on the other side. He approached Bo Din cautiously, aware of the sound of voices, the light of the cooking fires. He slung his M16 around his neck, waded into the water, and with his combat knife sliced the line holding one of the flat-bottomed boats. The boat drifted out with the current, and he held on and kicked, Bo Din fading into the darkness. He made the other side in ten minutes, moved into the jungle and sat under a tree, enduring the heavy rain.

      At first light, he moved out, opening a can of field rations, eating as he went. He hoped for a gunboat on the river, but there was no such luck, so he kept on walking through the bush, and four days later, as if returning from the dead, he arrived at Camp Four on his own two feet.

      Back in Saigon, the general attitude was disbelief. His unit commander, Colonel Harker, grinned when Quinn, checked out by the medics and freshly