War
Stories
By
Rocket
Episode
8.18: Part Two
“That’s
not what happened.” MacGyver might as well have
not spoken. Cooper leant forwards. His face inches from
MacGyver’s. He yanked his knife free.
“You killed them, you son of a bitch. You killed
them and now you’re going to die for your crimes.”
MacGyver gazed into Sergeant Cooper’s eyes, seeing
fury and vengeance and an absolute belief in the rightness
of his actions, but no spark of reason. The man Sergeant
Cooper had been twenty years ago was gone. MacGyver took
a deep breath and launched himself forwards, headbutting
Cooper as hard as he could. Using his free hand, he flipped
the table, sending Cooper sprawling with blood pouring
from his nose. Cooper struggled up with a roar and MacGyver
gripped his chair’s arms, swinging the metal framed
chair in a low arc that ended with a crashing blow to
Cooper’s head as he scrambled to his feet. Cooper’s
eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the floor, his knife
skidding away into the corner.
“Cooper?” MacGyver watched the fallen man
as he fished his Swiss Army Knife out of his jeans pocket
and cut the zip tie on his other wrist. He folded the
knife and rubbed his wrists. “Sergeant Cooper?”
Sergeant Cooper was breathing steadily but he showed no
signs of waking up. The nosebleed had slowed to a trickle
and a bump was forming on his head. MacGyver felt for
the pulse in Cooper’s neck, found it thudding strong
under his fingers, and heaved a sigh of relief. Stooping,
he rolled Cooper over. Then he reached into his back pocket,
pulling out a flattened roll of duct tape. He picked up
the table and placed it carefully over Cooper, before
taping his wrists and ankles to the table legs.
“Stick around, Sergeant – I’m gonna
go set the record straight.” MacGyver looked down
at Cooper’s still form. “’Cause that’s
not what happened at all.”
MacGyver left the building, letting the door slam shut
behind him and squinting into the last of the sunlight.
He swung his sports bag onto his shoulder and headed out.
* * * *
Vietnam,
1973
Corporal MacGyver
left the building, letting the door slam shut behind him
and squinting into the last of the sunlight. He swung
his kit bag onto his shoulder, checked his new orders
were safe in his pocket and headed out. He signed a Jeep
out of the motor pool and bumped down the track, alert
for potholes and the freshly turned soil that might indicate
a buried mine. The last of the daylight was soon swallowed
by the jungle and MacGyver switched on the Jeep’s
weak headlights.
Driving out here
at night was risky, but he had to reach his new posting
and the squad he’d be supporting by morning.
He slowed the
Jeep and crept across a rickety bridge, glad of the darkness
that hid the heart-stopping drop to the river below. Safely
across, he accelerated up the hill. He checked his map
with a flashlight, hiding the light as much as he could.
He spun the wheel, guiding the Jeep over the rough track
towards the outpost.
The camp was
in complete darkness when he arrived, the sentries surly
at having to patrol in one of Vietnam’s regular
downpours. MacGyver parked his Jeep and ran across the
clearing, his boots splashing red mud up his legs. Shaking
the worst of the wet off his coat and trying not to drip
on the outpost commander’s desk, he saluted and
stood to attention.
“Corporal
MacGyver, Sir. EOD. Sergeant Cooper sent me.”
“Yes,
he did.” The commander looked tired, MacGyver thought.
He watched him finish the report he was reading, sign
it and screw the cap on his fountain pen before looking
up. “Welcome to our little corner of hell, Corporal.
Briefing at 07:00.” He moved his papers away from
MacGyver’s dripping form. “Dry off and get
some sleep, soldier. Dismissed.”
MacGyver saluted
again and left the office. The rain had stopped as suddenly
as it had started and the jungle was filled with the night
noise of unseen barbets and geckos.
* * * *
By the morning, the weather had changed again. Artillery
Sergeant Alfred Hawkins glanced out at the steamy mist
beyond his window and loosened his collar. The heat bothered
him at the best of times, making him short tempered even
when he didn’t have uppity locals to sort out. He
scratched his armpit and shifted in his chair. Things
had been going so well too, his black market wheeling
and dealing lining his pockets very nicely and providing
a welcome addition to the pay packets of the squad who
were working with him. Now he had to deal with a Headman
who’d decided to up his prices and who hadn’t
been swayed by Hawkins’ usual bully-boy tactics.
If he didn’t nip this in the bud, other suppliers
might think they could do the same, and Hawkins’
little empire would come crashing down around his ears.
No, he needed to make a proper example of the greedy Gook.
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a form.
Winding it into his typewriter, he typed fast, putting
together an order for a mortar strike to take his grabby
contact and his scruffy village out completely. Then he
could send his boys to collect whatever remained at his
leisure. He paused with his fictitious order almost complete.
He just needed a name, someone who wouldn’t be able
to trace it back to him. Someone who could take the fall
if it ever got investigated. Someone unfamiliar…
Sergeant Hawkins
reached out and picked up the postings list for his pet
squad. He ran his finger down the list and nodded, then
turned back to the report and began to type.
* * * *
Mist filled the air, making the jungle silent and mysterious.
MacGyver spent the morning analysing the twisted scrap
that was all that was left of a ‘mine magnet’
armoured personnel carrier, blown up by a powerful land
mine only a mile from the outpost. Returning in the fog,
he watched the shadows alongside the road for movement
but saw nothing. In the distance he heard the rolling
boom of artillery and the rattle of machine gun fire,
but the mist muffled everything and he found it impossible
to judge its distance or direction.
By the time
he pulled in to the outpost and parked his Jeep, his fatigues
were mist soaked and clammy, and his nerves were wound
tight. He grabbed a cup of coffee and typed up his report,
the keys of the typewriter sticking with the damp. Just
as he finished, a soldier he hadn’t met before stuck
his head around the door.
“Corporal
MacGyver?”
“Yes?”
MacGyver pulled the paper release lever and removed his
report.
“We got
a job, Sir.” IED in a nearby village.” MacGyver
nodded, feeling adrenaline fizz in his veins.
“Lead
the way, Soldier”.
* * * *
MacGyver rode in the cab of the ‘deuce-and-a-half’
truck carrying the squad, his map spread out on his knees.
Even over the engine, he could hear the squad talking
behind him, sounding more excited than scared. He shook
his head. The excitement he’d felt at being in a
different country and fighting the good fight against
the evils of the Viet Cong had lasted only until his first
engagement. Since then, the lines had blurred for him,
the soldiers he’d fought and the bombs he’d
defused too close to their American counterparts for comfort.
Now every time he went out, his only thought was ‘don’t
let me get it wrong today’. He braced a hand against
the truck door as a rough patch of track jolted him out
of his reverie. They turned a corner around a rocky outcrop
and the driver pulled to a halt with a stifled curse.
MacGyver opened the door and hung out of the cab, finding
it hard to believe the scene before him.
Where he’d
expected to find the village, there was only a smoking
tangle of wreckage. Broken bricks and scattered thatch.
Possessions strewn across the clearing. It took MacGyver
a moment to realise that bodies lay in the rubble.
He gripped the doorframe hard, his knuckles white as he
fought for control. He turned to the driver and saw the
squad were already picking their way through the blasted
village, seemingly unaffected by the carnage before them.
The driver met MacGyver’s horrified gaze calmly.
“I guess
it went off before we got here.” He shrugged. “I’m
sure glad I wasn’t here when it did.”
“Check
for survivors.” MacGyver’s voice came out
calmer than he felt. “All of you. And watch your
step.” He grasped the sleeve of the soldier carrying
the field telephone. “Stay here. I need to call
this in.”
He listened
to the noises on the other end of the line.
“Come on, Commander. Pick up the call…”
* * * *
Los
Angeles, 1994
“Come
on, Pete. Pick up the call…” MacGyver turned,
looking over his shoulder in the phone box. He had no
doubt that Cooper would be conscious again by now and
working on getting loose. Once Cooper got out, MacGyver
knew he’d be coming for him.
“Hello?”
Pete’s voice sounded tinny and distant.
“Pete!
Man, am I glad to hear your voice!” MacGyver switched
the phone to his other ear and looked up and down the
street.
“Mac?
Are you OK?”
“Jury’s
out on that, Pete. Listen, I need a really big favour…”
MacGyver fed another coin into the payphone, watching
a man turn the corner into the street.
“Anything, Mac. What do you need?”
“Well,”
MacGyver ran a hand through his shaggy hair, “I
need the original report from a mortar strike, from Vietnam,
1973.” He listened to the silence on the line.
“Wow.” Pete sounded surprised. “I can
probably pull some strings but it’ll take a while.
Dare I ask why you need it?”
“Long
story, Pete. Something I DIDN’T do in Vietnam seems
to have come back to bite me in the… never mind.”
MacGyver squinted at the man walking towards him, breathing
a sigh of relief as the man put down his hood. Not Cooper.
Not yet.
“I don’t
understand, Mac.”
“I know,
Pete. Neither do I.” He could hear Pete drumming
his fingers over the static on the line.
“Mac,
what on earth’s happened here?”
* * * *
Vietnam
1973
“What
on earth’s happened there?” MacGyver could
hear the commander drumming his fingers over the static
on the line. He shook his head.
“I don’t
know, commander. My men are searching for survivors, I’m
about to start investigating the remains of the village.
First impressions, Sir – this doesn’t look
like any home-brewed explosion I’ve ever seen.”
He looked across the rubble at his squad, congregated
around the remains of a large house.
“Be sure,
Corporal.” The commander hung up the call. MacGyver
frowned at the receiver before returning it to the soldier.
“Yes,
Sir.”
MacGyver climbed
up onto the truck to get a better view of the wrecked
village. The damage was massive. The centre of the clearing
had been reduced to a crater, earth and rubble thrown
out in all directions. The nearest buildings had been
destroyed, bricks and thatch thrown into the surrounding
jungle. MacGyver turned away, sickened by the blood-and-smoke
smell laying heavy on the misty air. He watched the squad
digging into the ruins of the largest house, pulling crates
out from under of the wreckage and stacking them to one
side. Hoping that they’d located survivors, MacGyver
hopped down off the truck and went to help.
“Corporal!”
The nearest soldier straightened and saluted.
“Find
anyone?” MacGyver crouched down to peer under the
edge of the fallen roof.
“Thought we heard someone, Sir.” The soldier
kept his gaze straight ahead. “We’re checking
it out.” His finger was tight on the trigger of
his gun and sweat beaded his face. “Haven’t
seen Charlie, Sir.” MacGyver studied the young soldier.
At first glance he looked shifty, guilty even, but MacGyver
dismissed the thought, deciding the young man was likely
just scared.
“Good
looking out, Soldier.” He nodded to the rest of
the squad, who’d paused in their clearing work.
“What’s in the crates?”
“Dunno
Sir, didn’t look. Just moving them outta the way.”
A very muddy soldier heaved another crate out and pushed
his helmet back to stare at MacGyver.
“Carry
on.” MacGyver turned away to look at the crater
from ground level. The more he looked, the less convinced
he was that it had been caused by an improvised explosive.
He walked to the edge of the crater and crouched down.
He’d exploded probably hundreds of IEDs since arriving
in Vietnam, and seen the bloody results of many more.
This crater was all wrong, the damage too severe and the
crater itself too deep and regular. He breathed in, smelling
the lingering smoke. It didn’t smell right, not
for an IED. This was a different scent… He stood
up, deep in thought. What else could have made a crater
like this?
Gradually the
pieces of the puzzle assembled themselves in his head.
No, not an IED. More like a… He turned at the sound
of footsteps. The young soldier stopped and saluted.
“No survivors,
Sir. No-one under the house after all.” MacGyver
sighed, appalled at the senseless waste.
“Get everyone
back in the truck. There’s nothing more we can do
here.” He turned his collar up against the soft
rain that had begun to fall, and followed the soldier
back to the truck. He turned with one hand on the door,
taking a last look at the village and saying a silent
prayer for the villagers.
No, not an IED.
MacGyver shivered. He’d been here long enough to
recognise the smell of an exploded mortar round.
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