Steel's Edge

Steel’s Edge

A Gary Steel Thriller

By C. Emerson

© 2019 C. Emerson.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

To Gary R. Smith

1941-2009

Semper fi!

War. You can’t have one without casualties. The dead and injured are obvious. It’s the ones who are damaged on the inside that are harder to recognize.

To all of our military personnel past and present:

Thank you!

PROLOGUE

It was October, 1967, and I had so much sweat pouring down me, it was like I was in the shower.

I guess I better explain something first. I’m Gary Steel and I’d been deployed with nine other United States Navy SEALs along the Rach Bau Bong, a river deep in the T-10 area of the Rung Sat Special Zone of Vietnam.

I was observing the strictest of noise discipline as I sat there silently contemplating.

I realized the men I was with were extraordinary, even if the mission was simple.

We were on a recon patrol of the area and a 48-hour river ambush. The men on my SEAL team had started out at 03:35 to be inserted into the jungle by Helo, better known as Navy Seawolves.

We inched our way nearly six hundred meters though twisted jungle growth, and the team was finally in position by 06:35. We were all covered in a smelly black slime from mouth to toe. Our boots were weighted down with layers of caked mud from the creeks we’d just waded through.

As daylight broke, the heat of the day steadily increased. The long johns we wore underneath our camouflaged uniforms acted like a double-edged sword. On one hand, they protected the soldier from the constant attack of the buzzing, gnawing mosquitoes. On the other hand, the long johns helped the heat of the day bake and suffocate us.

Five Navy SEALs, half the team, set up along the riverbank for the first twelve-hour watch. The remaining men set up in the rear as a security element.

I’d been on point on the journey in, but now I found myself on the backline.

I took the precious downtime for a chance to relax. My slimy black hands laid Big Momma, my Stoner 63 machine gun, across my lap. Big Momma had already given out her kiss of death numerous times during my tour in Vietnam. I grabbed a refreshing drink from my canteen and then pulled out some of my favorite C-rats. I thoroughly enjoyed eating the ham and eggs. In my opinion, they were one of the finer field rations for the fighting man.

It was then that the black flies started to swarm in. It was just a few at first. Then more and more came in.

The mud that clung to us attracted them as if we were soaked in perfume.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the flies. But they continued to buzz in my ears and land in bunches on my face, hands and uniform. By now, all the soldiers were dealing with them. Thousands of tiny little diseased feet tap-danced across our bodies as if they were on stage.

The heat continued its relentless thermal assault until about 12:20. Then suddenly the heavens opened up and it poured rain.

It was a rain of biblical proportions!

The water level of the river rose like a bathtub being filled for a child at the end of day. Ultimately, we had to reposition ourselves back from the banks.

I sat there like a statue, but my senses were aware.

The rain gave us a respite from the heat, flies, and mosquitoes. But the water level also climbed higher and higher. The river came up to my chest, then up to my neck. The applauding noise of the rain as it beat on the river was deafening. Water nipped and bit at my face in a never-ending splatter. Finally, the monsoon started to subside, but I still had to sit rigidly straight to keep my mouth out of the water.

The next few hours passed and the water level slowly started to recede.

The whole time I held onto Big Momma. I even stroked her lovingly underneath the water. With Big Momma in my hands, I felt like a god!

I could hand out death and destruction at an alarming rate. Deep down I knew that I was one deadly S.O.B. and I ruled over all that I surveyed!

After a while, I decided to close my eyes and grabbed a little shuteye as my uniform slowly dried in the oven like heat.

Suddenly, I awoke. I’d sensed something while I was sleeping. My eyes darted around, surveying the area. Nothing was amiss. Dry, mudded soldiers were dozing around me, sitting in puddles. The heat was now even more suffocating then it’d been earlier and we wore it like a winter coat.

As I turned my head, to my relief I realized that most of the flies were gone.

Instinctively I slowed my breathing and strained my ears. That’s when I heard it. The sound of human voices off in the distance!

I lifted Big Momma from my lap and flicked the safety off. Then I quietly slid through the slick mud and up to the ambush site, all the while peering through the jungle’s thick foliage at the river beyond.

I took up my position near the center of the kill zone and waited. The other soldiers from the back line also came silently forward and slid into position. We all blended in with our surroundings.

This was the moment when a fighting man might be drawing his last few breaths on earth. This is the moment where he might die and become a memory that will ultimately fade into history and nothingness. The story of our life told, completed, and at an end. But my comrades were highly trained soldiers and they didn’t think like that. They were the elite of the elite and we trusted one another with our lives.

We, the Navy SEALs, just concentrated on the task at hand.

I watched as the sampan quickly appeared floating downriver. I steadied my breath and readied my aim. The instant that Lieutenant Shaffer, our Assistant Patrol Leader opened fire, my trigger finger would twitch and Big Momma would belch out a one way ticket to hell.

But nothing happened. As the sampan moved on by, I understood why.

Just an old woman and two young boys, I whispered almost silently in answer to Lieutenant Madison, the Patrol Leader’s inquisitive glance.

The commander nodded an affirmative and the rear line retreated back into position.

I decided that I needed to get some more shuteye. I needed to be alert during my 12-hour watch which would begin that night. So I closed my eyes and prepared to doze off and dream of happier times and places while I cradled Big Momma.

But I didn’t get any time to nap. Lt. Madison gave an order. The SEAL team was to take prisoners if another opportunity presented itself. And a few minutes later, it did.

The team personnel once again set up in ambush.

This time though, as the sampan floated downriver, I could see three North Vietnam Army Soldiers in green uniform on board. One was standing up front, one standing in the rear steering the boat in the current, and one was standing next to the small shelter in the middle of the sampan.

I realized that there could be more NV inside.

"Lai dai!" (Come here!) Lt. Shaffer yelled.

The NVA soldiers looked at one another in shock, realizing that the enemy had somehow penetrated into the middle of their swamp.

"Lai dai! Lai dai!" screamed Lt. Shaffer again.

But the VC just continued to stare dumbly as the sampan started to float out of range.

"Lai dai, dammit! cried the Lieutenant in frustration. I said get over here!"

The soldiers exchanged final glances amongst themselves before they all dove into the water. The SEAL team immediately opened up with a barrage of firepower.

As it rained bullets on the river, a movement on the sampan caught my attention. Someone was coming out from the little wooden shelter. I wasn’t going to let the enemy get off any shots at my brothers. So, as the figure emerged, Big Momma roared.

Too late, I realized that it was a woman carrying a bundle.

She slumped over in the boat, shot numerous times. Then, to my horror, I could hear a baby’s cry.

Don’t shoot the sampan! I screamed as I got up and ran for the river.

Two of the three NVA soldiers were now trying to climb up the steep, slippery bank on the opposite shore. They’d never make it up. Their bodies and flesh were shredded and torn apart, a testament to the horrors of war.

I dove into the cold river and swam furiously after the sampan. Amidst the gunfire I could hear the baby crying loudly, hysterically.

It was screaming bloody murder!

I was an exceptionally strong swimmer. All Navy SEALs are. I quickly closed the gap on the boat. Then I pulled myself up and onboard, careful not to tip the sampan over.

I pulled the dead woman’s bloody body back and saw the now quiet baby. It was naked and I saw that it was a boy. A single bullet had gone through the woman and into the infant. I lifted the child into my arms, trying to figure out what to do. It was gasping silently for breath. I was about to yell, Medic! But then suddenly the baby just stopped breathing.

I held the lifeless being. It dangled in my hands like a rag doll.

If only I’d taken a half second to assess the target. I hadn’t been under fire.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. At that moment, I felt nothing but utter helplessness.

I realized that I was anything but a god.

ONE

Extraordinary circumstances make extraordinary people, stated my good friend, Joe Wilson.

He paused as he ran his fingers through his almost totally white-gray hair. It was like he was trying to pull out more on the subject. But he was fighting a losing battle. We were both feeling the effects of the alcohol we’d been drinking the last hour and a half.

The haze caused Joe to lose his thought.

Neither of us was much of a drinker. We’d run into each other outside the Brookfield Plaza Post Office and decided to grab a quick drink at the 1320 Club II. It was conveniently located just a few doors down from the post office.

Well, that quick drink had turned into many more as we got caught up in conversation.

Now I’ve got to tell you, the 1320 Club II is a go-go bar. The crass person might call it a titty bar. Girls danced on a rectangular stage that was elevated in the middle of the room. Seats and a bar for drinks ringed the raised dance floor. The platform glowed softly, lights shining through the thick mosaic plastic floor from underneath.

These were the prime seats where men could sit for hours nursing overpriced drinks and handing out dollar bills to the undulating, partially clad women.

It was the early 1990s and Fairfax County law didn’t allow full nudity, so all of the dancers had to wear pasties over their nipples. The law also stipulated that their rear end be fully covered. So basically, what you had was a dance club where the girls paraded around in something not much more revealing than a bikini.

One girl would dance a set that would last twenty minutes, the music being supplied by a loud jukebox. A total of three girls worked an hour and if you wanted to hit the jackpot, a guy would come in from 5 to 7. That way he would get to see 6 dancers, the end of the day shift and the start of the night shift. Friday and Saturdays were even better. Four girls worked an hour in 15-minute shifts.

The bar, as always, was dimly lit. Small tables were set up around the outside of the stage along the wall. At each table, were arched topped, window-sized mirrors where a person could watch the entertainment discretely through the reflection. At the far end of the room, a bartender stood working behind a bar. This night he was a young male dressed in a tight-fitting black tee-shirt, jeans, and the latest pair of Nike Air Jordan’s. He was muscular but not particularly big. He acted confident though. From past experience I knew it was because he had a metal pipe tucked away back beside the ice machine. It would be brought out when things got a little too festive in the club.

Both Joe and I had been slapped in the face by the pungent smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke as we’d entered the club. It was a place where between the two of us, we’d probably been to less than a handful of times in 20 years.

I’d become a private investigator a few years after I’d retired from the military. To me, it’d seemed like the perfect profession to make the most of my talents and maybe do some good in this old world.

And truth be told, I was pretty good at it.

But I’d quickly become disillusioned with my new vocation when I found out through experience that domestic cases were the bread and butter of the P.I. industry. Following people around, trying to see if they were committing adultery wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I’d started up my own business. In the Washington D.C. area though, proving that your spouse was cheating on you could mean the difference between getting that overpriced suburban house in the divorce settlement or not.

The hardest part was whenever I told a wife that her husband was cheating on her, the woman would invariably break down into a puddle of tears. Instantly, I found myself becoming their best friend, minister, or shrink; all of which I was unqualified to be.

I briefly considered going back to school and getting a psychology degree.

But fortune had smiled on me instead.

I’d gotten involved in a case where I had to do a surveillance on the Sheriff of the town of Herndon. My investigation led to the Sheriff getting fired and newspaper coverage in the Washington Post. Suddenly, I started getting calls for different cases, the hard cases.

Within a year I’d followed a CIA agent, the head of a corporation, as well as infiltrated a facility that was doing illegal tests on animals.

All of this was more up my alley.

With the change in caseload, came an increase in the fees that I could charge. Without a family, I was able to spend my money on the latest spy gadgets. I was a kid in a toy store and I lacked for nothing, monetarily or materially.

My best friend was the man I was drinking with that evening, Detective Joe Wilson. He was a veteran of the Fairfax County Police Department. Wilson is older than me and he’s starting to plan for his retirement from the force in a year or so.

Joe was just under six-feet tall and fighting the battle of the bulge like most middle-aged guys are. We’d met years earlier when I was just starting out and learning the ropes of the detective game. While working a job, Joe had given me some sensitive information that’d helped me break the case wide open.

Instinctively, I’d protected Wilson as the source of the information. I’d taken what he’d given me and then took the time to do the research on my own to find that exact same info in the public records.

Now, I’ve got to tell you, I wouldn’t have known where to look if it hadn’t been for Joe. It would’ve been like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But by working it backwards the way I had, I was able to protect my source and Joe never had to testify in court.

I guess taking these extra steps to insure his protection had impressed him. Joe had fully expected to get his neck chopped off for sticking it out. You know the old saying, no good deed goes unpunished. But to his credit, he also knew what he’d done was right, even though it could possibly cost him his job.

From that moment on, Joe knew I was a character guy and could be trusted. My loyalty had earned the respect of the grizzled old cop and we’d become fast friends ever since.

I picked up the conversation where Joe had left off.

I sort of wish I’d never been thrown into any extraordinary circumstances, I said. He knew I was talking about the war. All I ever really wanted was to have a normal life. But we’re way past that ever happening.

I chuckled and paused. Then I took a sip of my rum and coke. My eyes lost their focus as my mind drifted away.

I remembered flying into San Francisco when my second tour in Vietnam was through.

I could see protesters lined up outside the airport. They held anti-war signs like: Draft Beer, Not Students, and Make Love, Not War.

I’d been told not to wear my uniform. But I was proud of it. Besides, I didn’t really have any decent looking civvies.

I made