So Sweet Justice

Chapter 1: Hello, Viet-Nam "OK, birdmen! Mark the calendar. It's 4 June 1969. Snowden and Monroe. You lucky dogs. You're ready." The tall Marine captain spoke excitedly and banged the flight schedule board with an open fist. Then, tempering his enthusiasm, he said. "Hard to believe you tolerated this godforsaken Viet-Nam for a month now. You trained hard. By God, it’s time to earn your pay." He glanced at his fellow training officer. "Agree, Vic?" "Roger, Boss." Marine First Lieutenant Victor Tobias nodded the two fledglings a rewarding smile. "Look good to me. I'd fly with these guys on my wing; any day." "Yep. They're good." "You know, Captain. I live to train new pilots. When I do that, I learn more than I teach." "No question, Vic. Gratifying." Captain Warner Nichols, USMC, cuffed both newbies on the shoulder with a, "Semper Fi, Marines. Just got your first attaboy. I'm looking for many more." The greenhorns instinctively delivered a cheer to the roof, "Thanks, Sir. We’re ready!" "It's after midnight, Jarheads. Get a beer and hit the sack." Warner shook the hands of the young and yet untested pilots. "Big day tomorrow. Check the flight schedule. You're both on it. Now, get out of here! Remember, I said a beer. Two at the most." The four officers turned to leave. Abruptly, the Quonset hut door swung wide open, smashing the doorknob hard against the yellow pressboard bulkhead, punching a hole completely through. The four pilots hit the deck in a flash when a pocket-sized, dark, barefooted humanoid form burst in. It was maybe four feet tall, wearing an all-black outfit, halfway resembling a uniform, or even pajamas. Brandishing an automatic weapon, the intruder waved aimlessly from side to side, up and down, firing wildly in all directions, foretelling a stern and grave story. Staccato bursts sprayed in all directions, discharging unseen projectiles against the dark gray filing cabinets, exploding dimmed incandescent lights, and shattering panes of glass. The captain and the three lieutenants jammed their bodies brutally against the wooden deck. "Get down! Now! Get over there!" the captain yelled, shoving the new pilots' heads hard onto the deck. He pointed toward a U-shaped array of gray metal filing cabinets. "That way! Go, dammit! Stay low!" Not knowing how many trespassers had entered, Nichols guided his students over the oily, grimy deck. In seconds, the four Marines had wormed inside a cave-like crevice, a haven perhaps, if only psychological, safe from the unyielding onslaught of deadly slugs still ricocheting around the room. The captain’s heart pounded faster and harder, drowning the echo of the relentless gunfire. Each breath of the caustic odor of burnt cordite convinced him this was not a dream. He hugged the deck even tighter. As swiftly as the prowler had charged in, he raced back into the night, still firing. In seconds, several shots, unmistakably from a Marine security patrol, rang out. The shooting died out. The captain cautiously untangled his seventy-three-inch frame from its cramped position inside the makeshift foxhole and vigilantly crawled out. "OK, you guys," said Warner. "It’s over. Untangle. Marines won again. This time." "Holy Christ! What the hell was that, Captain?" "Sappers. Charlie. Viet Cong. VC, for short. You name it. They wait for dark nights; like tonight. No moon. Then they hit us. They’re guerillas, terrorists, suicide squads. In other words, we're their enemy and they don't like us." "Damn, Sir." "They play suicide. Attack, knowing it's their last day on earth. They don’t care. Do it for the love of their cause. Probably on coke or heroin, or some other local weed." "Christ a mighty, Boss. It’s scary." "Common, Sir?" asked Monroe. "No, but once is too much. And mark my ever-loving words, you guys; their buddies will be back. And every time, it's them or us. Remember that." "How about Security?" "They're good, but can't stop 'em all. The gooks know every nook and cranny of this place. Some of the bastards turn out to be locals. They live here. Even sleep here. Some are hired by the Marines to work here. They come and go. Sometimes, when a raid is on tap, they don't even go home. Just hang around until attack time." "Damn, Sir. Why?" "This is their home. We're invaders. We're the bad guys." "Tells me we're lucky, Captain. Close. Gotta keep on our toes." "Bet your ass. Everybody carries a weapon, especially at night. And on a no-moon night like this, you really gotta watch your ass. That’s when they’re most likely to hit. Just like tonight. Now get out of here. Get some sleep. You’re both flying tomorrow. And I got an early meeting with the colonel. Be ready." "Aye, Sir." Nichols made his way to his quarters. He opened the door and looked around. Could have guessed, he thought. Spotless. Everything was perfectly in place; clothes pressed; on hangars; bed made perfectly. Yep, Chi’s been on the job again. That loyal little fart, he kept thinking with genuine fondness. Been my houseboy since September. Never failed yet. Poor guy. Sometimes I wonder what’s in store for the little cuss, especially after the war. Captain Warner Nichols, USMC, had reported for duty at the Da Nang Marine Corps Air Station a year before; 15 June 1968. He’d no sooner checked into his BOQ room that first night when a tiny Asian figure stormed in. Having been warned of the danger of night gook attacks, Warner drew his Combat Masterpiece .38 and nearly pulled the trigger. Then he'd seen it was an unarmed kid and realized this was no threat. He shouldered his weapon and grabbed the boy's shoulder. "Hey, little guy. What's going on? I almost shot you." "Thanking you not shoot Chi." "Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?"