Death in the Jungle Gary Smith (mobi reader txt) 📖

“Come on, Kats! You’ve gotta back off or we’ll never take you in. Then Mr. Meston’s gonna be pissed.”

Katsma, also on his knees, grinned at me. “Try again,” he said.

I rose to my feet and pulled the squashed roll of electrical tape from my pocket.

“We’ve gotta tie your hands and feet,” I reminded him.

He was still grinning. “Come and get it,” he said.

I glanced at Ty, who was sitting on the ground just a few feet from Kats. Ty winked at me, then whipped a handful of swamp mud in Kats’s face. Instantly, Ty and I lept onto Kats as he wiped at his eyes. Half-blinded by the muck, Kats swung a wild arm and knocked Ty to the side. I dropped the roll of tape, grabbed Kats from behind and squeezed him in an arm lock.

“Come on, Kats!” I demanded. “Give us a break.”

“Let me clean out my eyes,” Katsma dealt, “then I’ll let you capture me.”

I released my grip and Katsma stumbled a few yards to the riverbank. He dropped to his knees and bent over in a reach for a handful of water. He splashed his face several times, then got up and held his hands out toward me.

“They’re yours to tie,” he said with a smile. “Just go easy.”

I picked the tape off the ground and approached Kats with it. Ty stepped forward, grabbed Kats’s left hand and walked it around behind Kats’s back.

“ ‘Just go easy,’ he says now,” I smirked, twisting Kats’s right hand behind his back and pressing it against his left. “I will, but you don’t deserve it.”

Ty and I wrapped the black tape firmly around Kats’s hands at the small of his back, but only three times around. I motioned toward the ground and Kats sat down on the bank of the stream. I pulled his feet out and wrapped the tape three times around them at the ankles.

“Is that it?” Kats said sarcastically. “You guys are awful nice.”

I smiled at him. “We’ve got orders to gag you, too,” I reminded him. I pulled a dirty tag from my pants pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Then Ty ran tape twice around the rag to secure the gag.

Less than a minute later, two Boston Whalers came shooting down the stream with their 105-horsepower engines singing. As Ty and I readied our “captive” for transport, the coxswain of the lead boat cut back on the throttle and flared the boat right in front of us. Mr. Meston, using radio communication, had directed the Whaler with the boat crew of three and the MST lieutenant right to us. The second Whaler eased over to Mr. Meston’s position on the opposite bank.

The bow of the first Whaler eased up to the riverbank and I grabbed hold and pushed the boat around until it was parallel to the shore, pointing upstream. Then Ty and I hoisted the gagged-and-bound Katsma into the boat and the awaiting arms of the crew. I grabbed Ty’s fins and tossed them into the boat with mine, then Ty, with Kats’s rifle, and I climbed in next to the “prisoner.” Without a word, the coxswain navigated the boat across the stream to Mr. Meston’s position. As the bow touched the bank, I gave Katsma a pat on the head and a grin.

“Bye-bye, ol’ buddy,” I said. Kats raised his eyebrows at me and grunted. I moved forward with Ty, and we stepped off the boat and jumped onto the shore.

As part of the rehearsal, BT2 Moses simulated wounds to his eyes. With a battle dressing having been applied, he and Doc Brown boarded the boat. They sat down, then the coxswain backed the boat away from shore with seven people aboard, turned into the current, and opened up the outboard motor to vacate the area. His assignment was to take the prisoner and wounded man to the Long Tau River, where the LCM-6 awaited their transfer. There the VC would be interrogated and Moses would be medevacked by a helicopter.

Lieutenant Meston, as prearranged, kept the rest of us at the ambush site to practice the use of different-size charges in the Rach La. The second Boston Whaler stayed with us to divert any sampans away from the area for security and secrecy purposes. During daylight hours, local fishermen were allowed to use their nets in the Rach La. The crew of the Whaler would keep these people from the rehearsal area.

From the mission rehearsal, we’d already learned that ten pounds of C-4 is not enough to upset a sampan. Perhaps twenty pounds would be. When in doubt, double the charge! With that in mind, Mr. Meston and I decided that we should prepare another haversack with that specific charge. I also suggested adding more weights to prevent the bag from drifting with the current.

As we readied the explosives, a call from the officer in charge of Mighty Moe sounded over the radio.

“Stan, this is Bill Jackson. Be advised the Boston Whaler has swamped. A petty officer is missing. We are searching for him at this time. All other personnel are accounted for and aboard the LCM-6.”

Mr. Meston blurted out, “No! No!” His voice was shaky. He took the PRC-25 handset from Markel, put it to his mouth and managed to ask. “Who’s missing?”

The reply caused my guts to roll: “Petty Officer Katsma.”

Mr. Meston visibly slumped and muttered, “God, no.” He recovered in a few seconds enough to order a Dust-off, which was the code word for U.S. casualties. By this time, I had moved right next to him.

After the transmission, he looked at me with a sickly expression. “What in the crap happened?” he asked.

Mr. Meston bowed his head and covered his face with his left hand. I felt my heart hitting hard against my chest. I gazed at the stream, wishing Katsma would appear with a big grin on his face. Either that, or I’d wake up from a bad dream.

Lieutenant Meston raised his eyes and stared at me. His