The Phoenix

  This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.

  CASCA: #14 The Phoenix

  Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder

  Copyright © 1985 by Barry Sadler

  Cover: Greg Brantley

  All Rights Reserved

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  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 15 The Pirate

  Boston, Massachusetts

  My dear Landries:

  It has been a time since I last wrote you. I hope you have enjoyed the previous episodes of our wandering friend's experiences. He does not look well, although he is not ill. You and I both know that could not be the case. How can I put it? The man is just extraordinarily tired. A great weariness of the soul hangs upon him. There have been times for both of us when, as doctors, we have wished for the death of patients so ill that there was no hope for them except death to relieve their suffering. I often feel that for Casca. If I could I would give him that which he seeks. For surely there has never been anyone that has ever walked the face of this earth that has known such endless suffering in so many ways. But enough of that; we both know that there is nothing that either one of us can do for him. Yet I feel that somehow talking to him and sharing some of his experiences gives him a little relief.

  When last we talked you asked me if I could find out what happened to him during his time in Vietnam before he was brought to us at the 8th Field Hospital in Nha Trang. Well I have just returned from another meeting with him and he had no objections. Therefore, I most humbly submit the enclosed for your approval and dissection...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mud, the texture and color of blood, bubbled in his mouth as his lungs tried to breathe through the slimy fluid. Deep emerald-green leaves and the thick brush glistened with the pearldrops of the afternoon rain.

  A foot pushed at his back, tentatively at first, then more insistent as it stomped against his spine, forcing a groan out of his chest. Through the mist of his half-conscious pain he could hear voices in Vietnamese:

  "This one is alive."

  Hands turned him over to his back, stripping his boots and gear from his body. His leg twisted under him at an impossible angle as the Vietcong guerrillas moved to his back. The left leg was fractured below the knee, broken by the explosion of a mine set off five feet in front of him by the point man.

  Through the daze of his fogged mind he could hear single sharp cracks as brain shots were administered to each of the five already dead Americans. At the command of their leader, the VC jerked the surviving member of the patrol to his feet, supporting him so his face could be seen by their commander. A sharp slap across the face helped to bring Sgt. Casey Romain's eyes into focus. Soft brown eyes looked directly into Casey's. The once gray-blue color of his own eyes were covered by a thin film of blood caused by the concussion of the land mine. The Vietnamese officer spoke to him, his words gently flavored by the accents of France where he had been educated.

  "Can you hear me?" Another slap evoked a spontaneous response from the object of the Viet officer's attention. Casey's head jerked straight up. Eyes glaring with hate, they locked on the smooth, tan, intelligent face before him.

  "Good," continued the soft voice. "Good, I see you do understand me." At the Viet's side came another, harsher, voice. Casey couldn't make out the words but the tones were filled with urgency. The soft voice cut the other one short.

  "Well now." He moved his eyes to examine the rank of his prisoner. "Well now, Sergeant, it seems that this is not your lucky day. My associate tells me that we have to move on rather quickly. Our scouts have spotted some of your people heading this way and we're not prepared to greet them properly. From the look of your leg it is obvious that you would only slow us down. I do wish that I had the time to visit with you in a more congenial manner. I am certain that we would find many things of mutual interest to discuss. But, as they say, War is Hell." The voice laughed easily at the joke. "Yes, war is hell so prepare for your entry."

  Colonel Ho van Tuyen, of the People's Army of Liberation, was sincere in his regret that they would not have an opportunity to get to know each other better. It was always satisfying for him to reduce his captives to mindless whimpering creatures while proving his mastery over them. He sighed with regret. There were so few things that he really enjoyed, and it was difficult to pass up the opportunity to experience one of them, but then one can't have everything.

  From the edge of the clearing, where the ambush had taken place, came a cry from one of his Bo Doi. "There is another one alive!"

  Colonel Tuyen turned his attention to this new offering. A young trooper, not yet nineteen, was dragged before him. He, like Romain, was wounded. A red stain on his camouflage jacket and frothy bloody bubbles from the mouth were evidence enough that the young man was suffering from a shrapnel wound in his chest. He too would not be worth taking. To Romain he directed his words. "Oh yes, this is indeed an unfortunate day for you and your comrade friend here. But even though we are in a bit of a hurry I shouldn't deprive my own men of their small pleasures." He turned to his men and signaled them to begin. Five Vietcong gathered in a circle around the young trooper who was just beginning to understand what was going to happen. To him it seemed impossible that only three weeks ago he had been with his girlfriend in Denver; now he was in this nightmare place and something horrible was about to happen to him. He opened his mouth for a scream that never came. The butt of an AK-47 assault rifle crushed his jaw, driving broken bone splinters and teeth back into his throat. Arms raised around him as he was forced to his knees. Knives, machetes and bayonets flashed in the afternoon sun as they rose and fell. The weapons dripped with the blood of the nineteen year old as the soldiers hacked him into pieces with practiced strokes, severing his arms at the shoulder, then severing the head, from the neck as he knelt in front of them.

  Casey's eyes were fully focused now as he witnessed the butchering of the young man. There was nothing he could do. His good leg wouldn't even hold up his own weight. For the first time he spoke, his eyes unblinking, locked on the face of Ho van Tuyen. "You shouldn't have done that." An impulse to laugh at the American's futile remark was stifled in Ho's throat as he found his eyes forced to move away from those of his captive. He felt as if the man he was about to have killed was memorizing every feature of his face. A cold chill of fear ran through him as the light colored eyes looked at him as if he were already a dead man. His aide, Dai Uy Troung, urged him to get on with it. They had no time to waste. Ho shook off his fear. After all, he was in control here and this man would be dead in just a few seconds.
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  Casey knew what was going to happen. "Be seeing you around Colonel."

  "Sat Ngui My!" The order to kill the strangely disconcerting American was obeyed instantly. But this time not with the machetes or by the quick grace of a brain shot. There was no time left for small amusements and he would do nothing to give the approaching Americans any warning. This time it was done with a single thrust of the triangular shaped bayonet attached to the muzzle of a SKS assault rifle. The point entered Casey's chest, sinking deep. The smaller Viet gave the rifle a strong solid push, forcing the point out of Casey's back near the spine. Blood filled Casey's lungs. He sucked in air then expelled it with a gush of bright red blood. When he fell it was to lie crumpled and still. Not knowing why, Ho bent over the body to inspect it, despite the urgings of Troung to leave. Ho touched the open eyes with his fingers. No response. He felt for a pulse in the carotid artery; there was none. "Good!" One last order was given. His men dragged the bodies of the dead Americans off into the brush concealing them from casual observation. Because of the presence of the enemy they had not been able to take the time to properly strip the bodies. Only weapons and ammunition were taken, much to the regret of the VC, who were very fond of American jungle boots. Satisfied at last he and his men faded wraithlike back into the relative safety of the jungle to continue their mission. The ambush of the American patrol had not been on his agenda. He had simply taken advantage of a target of opportunity. Now he had to return to his real work, the organizing of special squads whose sole purpose was to kill the brains of the opposition—including high ranking South Vietnamese and American officers as well as the politicians and other influential traitors who served the Americans in the provinces. Village chiefs, prominent businessmen and province governors were even now being marked for death—and he was the mind behind the plan which would strike them down. Before he was through, it would take either an extraordinarily brave man or a fool to accept a position of responsibility.

  The clearing was left behind. Flies had started gathering on the bodies to drink the fluid which already was turning black and gummy from the heat. The blood would not fully dry for some time yet, the humidity giving it a gluelike texture until it did.

  The scouts of the advancing American patrol missed the clearing where the ambush had taken place by a mere hundred meters. They had heard the distant sounds of gunfire, but because of the density of the terrain they had been unable to get a firm fix on it. They only knew that they hadn't been able to raise their missing friends as the radio. They gave the clearing a quick once over and then moved on. If they had spent a moment looking they might have noticed the dark stains on the grass or the dull glint of light reflected off the spent brass of an M-16 or AK-47. They didn't. The bodies of their friends remained where they were hidden in the brush. Only the flies and birds knew where they were.

  All that day and into the night the dead lay still. Two hours before dawn one of them began to move. A finger trembled, pores opened to sweat. This body had not begun to swell with internal gas; the limbs were not bloated nor the face turning black with death. A pulse tentatively beat in the carotid artery, and then, as if gaining confidence, increased in strength and regularity. Sgt. Casey Romain, aka Casca Rufio Longinus, was coming back once more from the black depths of death, leaving behind the darkness he had wished for countless times. Damn the day he plunged his spear into the one who hung from the crucifix. Since that fateful moment he was doomed to walk the earth until the Second Coming. Only then would he finally have that which he sought most— eternal sleep. But for now, he would rise once more. And this time when he rose, it would be with a lust for vengeance.

  His lungs tried to turn themselves inside out as they expelled the last of the thick blood which filled them. Finally they sucked in air to inflate the organs and pump life into the now quivering body. Tear ducts began to function, moistening the delicate tissues of the eyes, permitting them to blink once, then again. The puncture marks from the triangle shaped bayonet were already closed. Only pink puckered marks showed the entry and exit points of the blade. Pain added to his resurrection. Groaning, he pushed his way out of the tangle of limbs and bodies that covered him. His uniform was black with clotted blood and swarms of flies clung to him, sucking the blood of those who had died. But the mindless creatures somehow knew to leave his blood alone.

  He staggered, and then his legs collapsed under him. The fractured bone where the 7.62 mm bullet had passed through his femur was still out of alignment though the wound itself had closed. Groaning with pain as the pieces of bone grated against each other under the weight of his body, he fell back to the earth. Eyes fogged, he blinked several times till the darkness around him began to take form. For a moment he had thought he was completely blind but it was only the night. Crawling over to where the bole of a tree split close to the ground, he set his foot between the branching trunk so that it served as a wedge. When he was ready he took a deep breath, held it, then drew his injured leg back pulling the fracture into line under the skin. He thought he could hear the squeaking of the bone being transmitted up his leg to the mastoid behind his ears. Head swimming with nausea, he waited for the pain to pass.

  Tendrils of fog floated over the trees. The thin glow of a cloud-shrouded quarter moon cast its haze over the brush. He shook his head, moving away from the pile of bodies. He needed to drink. The membranes of his mouth and throat were as dry as parchment. When the worst of the pain had subsided; he began to grope his way from the ambush site, following a thin animal trail through the trees. He grew stronger with every step as his body and mind cleared itself of the experience of touching death then being drawn away from it.

  Dampness soaked through the olive drab canvas sides of his jungle boots. A stream! Kneeling, he lowered his face to the liquid and drank, sucking the fluid in with huge gulps. His stomach wretched, spewing it back out, cleaning itself. Then he drank again, only this time more slowly, letting the moisture seep slowly into his dried gums and the delicate lining of his throat. The water stayed down. There by the narrow stream he rested, washing his face and rinsing as much of the blood out of his uniform as he could. He wanted a smoke. Resting his back against a smooth tree trunk, he closed his eyes, bringing to the front of his mind the face of Ho.

  With every fiber of his being he summoned back the instinctive hate he had for the VC colonel although he had met him just once. The deaths of the men in his patrol and the manner in which Ho had had the young trooper butchered only added to his hate. He wasn't shocked by the deaths for in his time he had seen tens of thousands die in every conceivable manner and knew he would see even more before he was finally permitted to join their ranks. But now he had a cause, a purpose to his existence. He was going to find Ho. No matter where he was or how far he might run, Casey was going to look him in the eyes again. This was one time when the curse of Golgotha was welcome and he would use it, even if it meant he had to die a dozen times more before he at last had his strong scarred hands on the throat of the Vietnamese. He was not impatient, for he had time on his side, all the time in the world.

  There had been another time when he had been with the French Foreign Legion that he had been left for dead on a Vietnamese trail. He wondered if that would happen yet again before he was at last done with this ancient land of smiling graceful people and rotting death.

  Enough! He had things to do before this day was through, and he couldn't get them done by sitting on his ass. There was nothing he could do for those in the clearing but there was much he could do to those that killed them. He rose to move north. The light had cleared enough for him to see spoor on the ground. The marks of many feet. The Vietcong were going north. So was he...

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ho never gave the strange-eyed man another thought. After the incident he'd even felt a bit silly for letting his thoughts carry him away. What could he possibly have had to fear from one who had been so completely in his power and now was dead? As dead as the rest of the patrol. He h
ad been fighting long enough to know that dead men can't hurt anyone. Two more days and they would reach their destination across the Cambodian border near where Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia touched corners. There, in a secure area, his agents and assassins, his "Ke'sat Nhan," were being trained and made ready for their day of use. Ho had long been fascinated by the story of the original assassins of Hassan ibn Hassad and the effect that they'd had on the course of history. The ancient assassins of Persia were a prime example of the power of selective terrorism, demonstrating quite clearly how a few men who were willing to die, could strike blind fear and panic into the minds and hearts of the so-called upper classes, rendering them powerless despite their armies and castles. His reverie was broken by Captain Troung. Ha was pointing out their approach to the village of Plei Tangale. It was a small hamlet of no great importance, peopled by members of the Bihnar tribe of Montagnards, those aboriginal savages of the Annamite highlands who held such a strong physical resemblance to the American Indians of the last century: wiry, stringy-muscled, a bit taller and darker than the Vietnamese, with long hair that hung to the shoulders and smelled of smoke.

  Of late the Vietnamese on both sides had changed their policies concerning the natives and had been actively courting their favor. Ho felt that his party had the best offer to make them. If they supported the revolution then they would be granted an autonomous republic inside the sphere of the new government and allowed to continue their own way of life without any interference from the Vietnamese. This had already been done in North Vietnam and several influential Montagnard leaders had made the trip north and had returned with high praise for the situation in the Peoples Republic. Ho knew that once victory was achieved the so-called autonomous regions would quickly be reduced to their proper state and the savages once more put in their place. But for now there were several hundred thousand of them that could be of use and put into the field, thus saving the lives of his own men. To that end, when he saw Moh Chen, the village chief, a dark, dry-skinned man of middle age with wide shoulders and muscular arms, wearing a loincloth and a red and black striped native blanket of homespun cotton approach him, he was all smiles.