stuff. They were all dying, they had to be. Abandoned here by their own country, their existence not even suspected until I'd come here on this tour, they had died one by one.
Other images came to me as I studied the rest of the secret messages scribbled on the walls. 'Tell Sally I love her.' It was signed 'Rieger,' probably a last name. Or maybe a nickname, something that he left as a message only to his relatives.
I saw a few more messages that I came to believe were left by my father as well. One had my own name, Matt, scratched into it. 'Be strong, Matt.' Whether it was a prayer or an admonition intended for my eyes someday, I could not decide. Yet it was more evidence that my father had been here, that he'd thought of me, and that somehow perhaps the image of me as he'd last seen me, as a very small, barely talking child, had helped buoy him through the torture and deprivations.
After two days, I was finished. I had compiled an extensive photographic record of the messages I'd seen, as well as a detailed pictorial overview of the camp and its location. I'd made sketches, suggested possible meanings to some of the more cryptic notes based on their location, and generally done what I could to document the camp and its existence.
Than was healing rapidly, regaining strength every day. His constitution was such that while the injury still limited his range of motion, it seemed barely to affect him. I marveled at his recovery, not sure I would have done as well, particularly not in the stifling heat and humidity that plagued the camp.
On the third day, I roused out of an uneasy, sweating sleep to an ominous smell ? smoke. I could see nothing, but the scent was unmistakable.
Around me, Than was organizing the rest of his crew, packing up gear and preparing us to move. I'd told him the previous day that I thought my work here was finished, and asked about camps further to the west.
The question appeared to surprise him, because he had examined the walls almost as carefully as I had, albeit with different reasons. 'There is one location,' he said finally. 'We can go there if you wish.' He shook his head, as though disapproving of the notion of another trek through the jungle. I had a feeling that there were reasons that he did not want to go that had nothing to do with his own physical condition.
Later, I would learn that Vietnamese aircraft had made an unprovoked attack on fighters from the USS Jefferson. But I had no inkling that that was the case at the time, and Than had steadfastly refused to admit that one of his men carried a radio capable of reaching their base station.
Now, the question of moving west was less of an issue. Than came running up to me, clearly agitated. 'We must move.'
'Where is the fire?' I asked.
He pointed to the east. 'Very big ? some distance, but we must hurry.' He regarded me levelly, as though trying to make sure I understood what he was saying. 'It is very dangerous here, Mr. Tombstone. Very dangerous.'
'From the fire?' I asked.
He shook his head, appeared to want to explain more, then settled for; 'The fire. Yes. Come on ? we must leave immediately.'
I packed up my own gear, then passed it off to the man who insisted on carrying it. By now I'd become accustomed to, though not comfortable with, the idea that Than would allow me to carry none of my own equipment. What had at first seemed like an elaborate courtesy for a field operation, intended solely to placate the ego of a flag officer, now took on a more ominous meaning.
Without my gear, I had no way of surviving in the jungle away from Than and his crew. Additionally, carrying my pack would allow them plenty of opportunity to search it every night, to make sure that I was not carrying a radio myself or some other locating beacon. While no questions had been asked about one, I was certain that such a device would raise innumerable problems on this delicate mission of trust.
Within twenty minutes, we were ready to leave. Than took point, setting a smart pace through the jungle. I wondered for a moment about the snipers, but he assured me that they had been cleared from the woods during the two days that we had camped there.
The smell of smoke was stronger now, and growing more so with every breath. If it were to the east, then it was gaining on us. Could we outrun it? What had at first seemed a foregone conclusion was feeling entirely less obvious now.
We were at a brisk walk, almost a trot, following the path of a creek bed through a narrow canyon. We moved steadily for two hours, not stopping for anything. Water breaks were taken on the run, and I saw one of the guards stuff a field ration in his mouth as the pace quickened.
It was the noise that brought me to a crashing halt. One so out of place and foreign in this decade. And one I knew well.
A jet engine, something powerful and military, I suspected from the high-pitched whine. It was coming in from the east, low over the trees, directly toward us. At first it was indistinguishable from the background buzz of insects, but I soon recognized it for what it was.
Than heard it too. He glanced back at me, saw that I had stopped, and yelled, 'Move ? quickly now!'
We were running now, moving along the cleared area between the stream and the trees at breakneck speed. The first tendrils of smoke were now visible, and it was getting harder to breathe.
The aircraft continued inbound on us, and now I thought I could put a name to it. It wasn't American, that much I was certain, and in this area of the country that left only one choice ? a MiG-29.
The noise built to an almost deafening intensity, crescendoing until I thought it would permanently deafen me. Then the canopy overhead rattled, treetops whipping like pennants. A dark, black shape screamed overhead, filling the world around me with the sound and the smell of hot jet exhaust.
It must have been like this during the Vietnam war. Jungle troops on patrol, hearing the high-pitched scream of the enemy aircraft inbound, fleeing for their lives before the devastation and destruction that rained down from the skies. It was an entirely frightening experience, being on the other end of an air attack.
The noise of the fighter faded far more quickly than it had started, passing overhead and then continuing straight on ahead of us. Then the ground under my feet rose up to smash me in the face, shuddering and shivering like a massive earthquake. The noise again, a thick, dull roar this time. Another explosion rattled the jungle, and I realized what had happened.
Not a bombing run ? a crash. The fact that the aircraft had been skimming the treetops, the odd stutter in its engine, those had been the signs of a fatal injury. It had gone past us before auguring into the ground, but just barely.
Had the pilot gotten out? I had no way of knowing, but since it appeared to have impacted the ground directly ahead of us, there was a possibility that we might see him.
We were headed uphill now, breaking free of the smoke, for which we paid with aching calf and thigh muscles, as we negotiated the steep incline. Away from the creek bed, the trees were thicker now, the undergrowth almost impassable at times. Our progress slowed, but we appeared to be moving away from the path of the fire ? and from the aircraft that would undoubtedly be burning ahead of us.
We neared the top of one ridge, and Than called for a halt. After four hours of moving at almost breakneck pace through the jungle, my legs could barely hold me up. Than himself seemed indefatigable.
'We wait here,' he commanded, and gestured toward the barren, rocky outcropping along the mountain.
'Why?' I asked. There was no doubt that in matters effecting our survival in the jungle, Than was the expert. If we survived, it would be because his decisions were the right ones, not because anything had been left to me to decide.
He regarded me for a moment, then appeared to reach some decision. 'There is shelter here. Come, I will show you.'
We crossed the rocky clearing, rounded three large boulders, clinging to them as we negotiated a narrow path, then arrived next to a sheer cliff face.
I stopped and stared up at it, amazed. There was a series of steps leading up the mountain face, maybe fifteen in all, to a narrow ledge. Just behind that ledge there was a dark, black opening. A cave ? one that was invisible from almost any angle except this one.
'If the fire comes closer, we will take cover there.' Than gestured at the cave. 'There are ways to survive fires. These I know.'
A small, wintry smile, one that reminded me that he would have been a very young man during the days of
