Third hour after midnight.
The camp-lantern radiated a yellowish light all around the tent.
Ortega was sitting on a chair with his eyes shut in some kind of half-asleep state, sometimes opening them just a little bit, like an always ready watchdog.
Martinez was smoking a cigarette while sat at the table he usually used for his briefings. He was thoughtfully gazing into space.
Messner was standing at one of the tent's corners, leaning on one of its four main poles, as if waiting for something.
He gave a glance out of the tent.
Soldiers were continuously coming and going.
The encampment was never at sleep, and no one was going to sleep that night for sure, because of the alert-state raised to the maximum level.
Messner came away from the threshold of the tent and looked at Ortega.
Ortega was carefully listening to the base's sounds and his face was filled with anxiety.
“Stay calm, Skorpio. Just calm”.
“I was sleeping”
“No, you weren't, Skorpio. The plan is okay, the guys are ready and awake. Everything's fine. You can sleep if you want to”
“Everything's not fine. Eagle's our team leader; he should be in here, not me. I should be over there, with the others”
“He is taking responsibility for what he is doing”
“It doesn't work like that, Skorpio. Not for us of the Baker teams. We should avoid that kind of bullshit”
“Are you sure? 'Cause I think that it's too late for discussions. He is out there and you are in here, so cut it, Skorpio. Try to get some sleep”
Ortega looked around. He felt guilty already for having had a discussion with Messner in front of some other people.
“Fuck” Messner said, stopping his thoughts.
Then he added:
“Take this. Have a smoke” he said, stretching out a cigarette.
Ortega lit it up using his zippo lighter..
“Is it so obvious that I am nervous?” he asked.
“No. It's just me knowing you for some time by now”
Ortega inhaled a long, slow, deep drag.
“That's what I was talking about” said Messner.
-
At the same time, Jorgenson was on the outside perimeter, posted in front of a slit between the sandbags and near his M60.
Lowered in the dark over his machine gun, he was smiling while petting it at the same time.
In his mind, he could see his daughter's eyes.
He couldn't get out of his mind the feeling that looking into his daughter's blue eyes gave him, and the way they looked all around with curiosity.
Looking into those little eyes of hers was stunning.
Virginia Jorgenson, one year old... His daughter.
One of the facts that surprised him the most was that the little baby couldn't stand the weight of her own head.
And yet, when you started playing with her, she smiled anyway, and she started spinning her little arms and shaking her little legs, laughing and happy.
Happy.
Virginia Jorgenson.
In a distant reality, Jorgenson was looking at the sand bags and grinning at them like an idiot.
And while doing so, he was petting his M60 at the same time, as if it was a beautiful motorcycle, and looking beyond those sand bags that he had to defend with his own life, if necessary.
It was in that moment that he realized that something was wrong.
And as if God himself had just heard his thoughts, a rumble shook all of the base from one side to the other, like thunder from an storm striking directly overhead.
All of the men on the base – no matter where they were – stopped and turned in the rumble's direction, paralyzed with surprise.
Jorgenson instinctively lowered his head over his M60’s sights, then he bent forward, ready to keep the recoil under control when he started squeezing the trigger.
He then analyzed sound, tone and volume and direction of the sound, thus understanding where it came from.
He then concluded that the silence distorted it, making the sound louder than it really was.
It was nothing but a 5.56 shot.
But a strange one, with a slightly different timbre.
It was one of Barry's booby traps, east zone.
They are coming – he thought.
Whoever had just stepped on the booby trap had probably lost his foot, but since no shout had been heard, Barry thought that the guy was probably dead.
They are coming for real – Jorgenson thought.
His heart started beating inside his chest.
… And so, Trautman was right.
It was then that the cries started; after a long pause of silence.
A single shout, but long and blood curdling, that then rose to an acute pitch.
A while later, the Vietcong AKs started shooting in the darkness in all directions, and to some extent in Jorgenson's direction too, even if it was impossible for them to know his position.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Jorgenson saw the enemy muzzles flashing right in front of him, about three hundred yards away.
“Fuck” he whispered.
They were firing at him.
I mean not really at him - Carl Jorgenson, father of Virginia Jorgenson.
They aren't shooting at you for real, Carl.
They haven't seen you yet.
Not yet...
But that's what they wanted, isn't it? To put him down like a bad dog.
So that's the way it feels – he thought..
That's it... We are in here for real.
We are at war, for Christ's sake..
I am fighting.
In that moment, he felt paralysed.
The Vietcong hadn't seen him yet, but some rounds were hissing over his sandbags anyway, probably shot at random in the base's direction.
At this point Jorgenson saw the whole world zoom out, and all of the sounds surrounding him suddenly vanished.
Everything around him was plunged into silence and happening in some kind of creepy, absolutely unnatural slow motion.
What's happening to me?
The visual effect was so strikingly powerful that he had to resort to all of his inner strength to keep control of himself and open fire anyway, ignoring it.
And as he did, everything got normal again.
The M60 roared its bass, heavy roars while the spent shells started clinking.
It wasn't enough.
The AK bursts slowly flashed in the darkness, while he was answering back at them with his own fire.
Grizzly Jorgenson lowered himself a little more and pushed it against his body with more force, then he continued shooting randomly almost, where his instinct was telling him to aim.
He had studied the base's perimeter beforehand. He knew where to shoot.
Then he started shooting five-round bursts, just like they had decided to do.
It was like a Morse code for the other Baker team members.
His mind was finally clearing again.
Some Vietnamese shouts reached him, but they were coming from too far away for him to understand them.
Panic, fear, pain.
The wounded were more than one.
His heart was beating against his temple.
Some kind of frenzy was slowly slipping inside of him.
He was tempted to stop firing, thus disrespecting the five-round regular patterns of fire.
No – he thought.
You can't do it.
Panic was right round the corner. He could feel it growing inside his mind and tangible, like a stranger's presence inside himself.
Calm down.
That kind of guest was strong, smarmy and terrible, just like Trautman had described it back when they were in Fort Bragg.
You will have to constantly ask yourselves if you are still focused – Trautman had told them a long time ago.
You will have to ask yourselves continuously.
His problem was that he had a daughter to protect.
He just couldn't die.
Am I operative or not? - Jorgenson asked himself.
Fuck yes... And now more than ever.
And that was the way Jorgenson finally came to his senses.
He gritted his teeth and shot the umpteenth burst against the muzzle flashes he could see in front of him.
No one was going to make Virginia Jorgenson an orphan. Not that night.
He was going to kill 'em all, and even with his bare hands if necessary.
And when the first flare rose high above the base, Jorgenson could finally see them all: they were all right in front of him, two hundred yards away.
Jesus Christ.
He had taken four of them out already. The other three, surprised in the middle of the clearance by the light, desperately threw themselves on the ground..
Die mother fuckers – he thought, then squeezed the trigger again.
-
Barry's hole was outside the perimeter of the base.
It was camouflaged using a big pile of branches and leaves, in order to look like scrub too thick to get into.
Barry had waited until the last moment, and maybe too long.
In the beginning, he heard some barely perceptible rustles, as if he had just imagined them.
Then some footsteps and some other rustles.
And in the end, he even heard some Vietnamese whispers, even if he couldn't understand them.
Only when he started seeing some moving shadows did his heart start beating inside his chest for real, and he started worrying about the very unreal idea that an enemy might stumble over him, or tread on him... And that would have been a hell of a mess.
“This is fighting behind enemy lines for real'... No shit - he thought.
When the fourth Vietcong passed him by, his heart started beating so hard inside his body that Barry started worrying that the Vietcong might hear it.
He had been at risk of opening fire too soon two times at least, but he didn't because 'you don't play with death', so he had just clenched his teeth and swallowed the anguish down inside his throat and stomach, right where it came from.
And he had let almost all of them pass by.
And when the first booby-trap had exploded, Barry was so close that he felt as though he had seen the whole scene, even if he didn’t.
Because the truth was that surrounded by that darkness he couldn't see a thing, but having memorized all of the booby-traps positions – and having heard the wounded Vietcong's shouts – he could conjure up a very clear mental image of his enemies’ positions.
Then, a flare was shot in the air from the centre of the base, and was now slowly coming down hanging from its little parachute.
And doing so, it created thousands of moving shadows all around Barry.
Amongst all of these blurry shadows, Barry could confirm the Vietcong's position anyway.
Jorgenson's M60 had been shooting for a long time by then, and so had his enemies, and he – Barry – was almost in the centre of the fight, inside his hole.
In the middle of all of that chaos, it was impossible for the Vietcong to distinguish the AK's single rounds that Barry was going to fire very soon and at their backs, and it was even more difficult for them given the fact that Barry was going to fire his shots exactly during Jorgenson's very regular five-round bursts (which was why Jorgenson was shooting with this very regular timing in the first place).
So, Barry chose his first target, which was the nearest and thus most dangerous of the Vietcong in front of him.
Only then he did recognize his enemy's regular uniform.
North Vietnamese... He thought.
The North Vietnamese soldier had his back to Barry while shouting orders at his mate at the same time, trying to raise his voice over the shots.
Barry waited for Jorgenson's next burst, and when he finally heard it starting he squeezed the trigger at the same time: a single shot – KRAK! – that hit the Vietcong almost in his groin.
Hit.
He got him right in the middle. He saw him turn upward and raise his arms to the sky, as if he was trying to ask God himself for help. Then he shouted and collapsed to the ground, and yet none of his mates gave any sign of having any idea about the shooter's direction. His shout was high-pitched, piercing and annoying, like the sound of chalk on a blackboard, and yet everyone was still looking in Jorgenson's direction, not Barry's.
Barry did not shoot to kill, but to cause desperation. He wanted to force the Vietcong into helping their wounded, in order to break the attack apart.
He had to wound another one.
After the first shot, Barry changed target immediately, waited for another of Jorgenson's bursts and then fired again.
He shot at the first rescuer of his first target, but this time he shot twice, two bullets at his legs... And did not stop
At his third round, he realized that basically, he was surrounded by the enemy by then.
He had to do something, and do it now.
No.
He was wrong about something, but he was lucky enough to realize it immediately.
If I don't calm down they will spot me. I must shoot less.
Focus yourself, Barry... And shoot at the right time only.
And then he hit his third and fourth Vietcong, and he would have hit a fifth too, if Jorgenson's last burst hadn't stopped too soon..
He then lifted his gaze over his iron sights, while the sweat was flowing down his forehead, ending up in his eyes. The next time, he was going to wear a sweatband, just like Rambo and Ortega did.
Again, he tried to calm down.
Then he lowered his head over his AK sights again, he waited for the next group of Jorgenson's bursts, then shot again – KRRRAK! -, slamming another three Vietcong to the ground, whot started squealing like pigs inside a slaughter house.
Killing those mother fuckers was cool... And easy. He was starting to get a personal taste for it.
Calm down..
Killing all of those bastards was something he had desired for a long, long time.
Barry saw another one falling to the ground, then another one, then another...
He would have slit all of their throats personally if only he could.
Die, mother fuckers.
Suffer and die like dogs, you pieces of shit..
Alex Roland Simmons: nineteen years old....
“Alex Roland Simmons” he hissed between his teeth while shooting again and again. Some other North Vietnamese soldiers fell right in front of him
He was about to stand up, when he suddenly stopped.
What the hell am I doing?
He took a long, deep breath.
Do you want do die? You don't want to die.
He looked down at his smoking AK.
Calm down, Barry. Just calm down.
Reload.
Klack! - was the sound made by his rifle, while reloading.
Reload and study what's really happening.
Study the next move, Barry.
Study the next move.
-
Inside the command-tent Martinez was standing still, in front of the radio.
He was in a cold sweat and the sweat drops were sliding into his eyes, annoying him.
Skorpio had understand that Jorgenson's and Barry's side were holding their positions well, but the attack was proving to be very powerful.
The Vietcong were neither few nor confused: they were attacking in a very calm way, and – worse still – they probably had a very well defined plan in their minds.
A smart plan.
But the Baker team was there, that night, precisely to destroy that plan.
Ortega was about to leave the tent - to go out and check all of the machine guns, in order to get an even clearer picture of the situation – when a guy suddenly came in.
He was bathed in sweat and panic stricken.
The Vietcong had just opened a second front line up on the east side of the base.
Ortega saw Martinez swallowing. He imagined him swallowing a very bitter pill.
Ortega looked more closely at Martinez, and decided he had to do something about it.
“Let's go outside” he said.
Ortega was scared too, but he had spent two years learning how to deal with it... But Martinez had not.
And that was the reason he wanted to take him for a walk around the base.
Distracting him would help.
At the South machine gun there were Danforth, Krakauer and two other guys from the base.
Danforth was shooting with no hurry and looked very calm. His enemies were very far away and far beyond the range of the AKs they were carrying.
Beside him, Krakauer was looking over the sandbags with his M16 at the ready.
Danforth's bursts were so regular that you could set your watch by them.
“Sit rep?” Danforth asked.
“The enemy has just opened a second front-line up on the east” replied Ortega.
“Is that a fact?”
“Christ, yes”
Danforth continued shooting. He had nothing to add.
“There's another thing: a guy thinks he saw some heavy weapons. Some kind or RPG, or something like that”
“Shit – Danforth said -. What do you think about that, Skorpio?”
“Don't ask me, Eagle. Maybe we are going to be overrun, maybe not. It's hard to say for sure. We shouldn't be a primary target, but the commies are not joking either, out there. They are many, well-armed and well-coordinated. And we have no idea about their numbers yet”
“Okay. Let's start with the maximum suppression. Anti break-through plan”
“Anti break-through: you got that, boss”
“I will be in one of the advanced holes” Danforth said.
It was at that point that Ortega definitely thought that Danforth was an ass hole.
A team leader shouldn’t put his life at risk inside one of the advanced holes, just like any other team members. One of the first duties for a team leader was to avoid all risks until it was absolutely necessary... Not to mention that, from inside one of those holes, he couldn't command anyone at all.
In fact, by doing so Danforth had just passed the Baker team's command to him.
Ortega would have liked to reply something, but decided to say nothing.
He didn't want to contradict his team leader from the very first mission.
“It might already be too late to reach your hole”
“I will give it a try”
Danforth turned his gaze elsewhere, than back to Ortega.
“We have had our differences of opinion, Skorpio – he said -, but you are a good soldier. If we shouldn't get through this, fighting together has been a pleasure”
Ortega smiled as if he was going to laugh.
“Don't bullshit me, Eagle: we are like a mouse and a cat, you and I. If it was me in charge of this team, I would never ever place myself inside no damn advanced hole”
“That’s the truth. This is exactly what a talker-guy like Trautman would say if he was here now. You are a real friend, Skorpio”
“You too. Don't get killed, Eagle”
-
At the top of the hill – half a mile away from the base - Coletta and Rambo were watching the attack from above.
Coletta was looking through his night vision sight, and the luminous screen created a little green halo around his eye.
Rambo had a night vision device too, but he was holding it in his hand and used it from time to time, just to check the other side of the valley.
In the sky there were at least three flares rising up right then. They were illuminating the attackers well.
Thanks to those flares and their night vision devices, Coletta and Rambo could see the scene like daytime.
Beneath them, the base looked like a phosphorescent nativity scene, over which the white blazes of automatic weapons flashed sometimes.
As Coletta finally saw the enemy formation in all of its numbers, he had a lump in his throat, and his legs softened.
It was like looking at a big, rabid dog right in front of you, with no chain restraining it and ready to jump.
So that's the way it feels – he thought.
“That's it, Raven” said Coletta.
Then he added:
“There are roughly forty of them. All of them have light weapons plus a couple of RPGs and machine guns, more or less. But I can't see the rest of the column. I have no visual. I can't know how many...”
Rambo did not reply.
Coletta raised his eye from the sight and lowered his M40 rifle.
“Not that it makes a lot of difference, given the fact that we can't retreat. The sooner we convince them to go away, the better”
Coletta smiled.
“Let's go and make some noise, Johnny. Let's go over the '202' one”
The two men started walking fast in the darkness through the jungle and down, toward the bottom of the valley, in order to change hilltop.
It was a cool night, but Coletta was sweating anyway.
So that's it – thought Coletta -.
We are searching for the enemy, and contact...
We are doing it for real.
Yes, they were doing it for real and even if it was craziness. No healthy-minded person at war would have gone looking for the enemy that way, but they were fighting using guerrilla rules, not conventional warfare ones. They were fighting the way the Vietcong did, and just like the way Trautman had taught them to.
If the Vietcong can do such things, you will too – were Trautman’s exact words, during a calm and sunny morning of one year before.
And that night it was up to him and Johnny to give it a try.
You are not scared by death. You don't want to die – Coletta repeated to himself, in order to pluck up his own courage, while running through the jungle.
The hill vegetation was thick and running in the dark difficult.
His thoughts suddenly went to his father, and his mountain home where he had grown up: he missed his home.
He could feel that place inside his heart as a place where he wished to be right now.
No, not like that. Calm down.
Stay clear.
He pushed that visions away from his mind by shaking his head, and continued running toward the next hilltop, where they were going to dominate the attacking enemies.
Calm – he thought.
You are not going to get yourself killed. It's just your first mission. There will be a lot of thuds, but it's just your first mission.
Calm.
In Fort Bragg there are people that survived dozens of firefights.
Rambo is three years younger than you, and yet he has fought already and is right here, at your side.
Calming down again was an almost painful effort for Coletta, and yet he did it.
While climbing up hill number 202, Rambo and Coletta started asking each other the perfect place to post themselves, but Coletta had a couple of ideas already.
God only knows what would have happened if yesterday we hadn't had a whole day at disposal to study the terrain...
No, no...
Focus yourself.
Coletta had no idea where such kind of thoughts were coming from, but he tried to do the best he could to push them back and focus on the present time only, just like he used to do when he used to hunt together with his father.
The place he was searching for had to be good for both shooting and to get away in a short time, because sooner or later they would need to get away, and fast. Coletta had no doubt at all about the latter part.
When the vegetation got even thicker than before, Rambo started to make a path through the jungle. Coletta followed him closely, with his M40 in his hands.
The two were sweating a lot by then.
Then the flares in the air became more than before, and the night became lighter.
They finally got to the top of hill number 202 pretty fast, and with no troubles.
The Vietcong were all busy attacking: none of them at all were scattered in the surroundings.
Had the Vietcong suddenly turned backwards and spotted Coletta and Rambo, the two would have barely had two minutes at disposal to flee the scene.
It was enough.
Coletta plucked up courage.
He just needed to say some macho-man bullshit, before starting it.
So he said the first thing that came into his mind.
“Okay, Raven: let’s start my personal kills list. Since every kill needs to be confirmed, you are going to be my witness. Prepare yourself for the counting”
Coletta immediately regretted that cowboy bullshit he had just said.
He lay over a rock spur and then looked inside his night vision sight.
The nearest Vietcong at the base were few, but very close by then.
It looked like two at least of the Baker team's holes had started shooting already.
Coletta locked his first target; inside his night vision sight it looked like nothing more than a black and green, human shaped mark.
He was sitting behind his cover, where he probably thought he was safe.
He was reloading or something; Coletta couldn't say.
Coletta inhaled, held his breath, than pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
I killed a man – he thought.
Coletta saw his target's head vanish in a black and green cloud inside his night vision sight
He swallowed while chambering a new round.
KA-KLACK!
It was terrible... A terrible feeling.
I killed him like a dog, and even worse thinking that I would never shoot any dog, for any reason.
Trautman had taught him to ignore fatigue, pain and fear too, but that no...
No one had ever spoken about ignoring your own conscience, so Coletta's mind got distracted by that
I killed him like a wild boar.
The selected marksman swallowed again while lowering his head again on his sight, in order to find a new target.
What an awful feeling..
Enough! Focus yourself!.
He had no time to rave.
Study your next shoot; the wind, the exact time you are going to choose to shoot...
Just focus.
The Vietcong – green and black in front of him – continued moving like fluorescent ghosts.
I smashed him like an ant, God damn it.
Stop.
Ask yourself if you and Rambo should change position.
Coletta clenched his teeth, while continuing to look through his green lit small screen.
Keep on reasoning, because your