Sunset People. Herbert Kastle

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      Copyright © 1980 by Herbert Kastle

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

      For Raines & Raines & Korman & Buck, comrades in arms in the longest battle.

      “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.”

      —Archilochus

      “Death, that is the most important of all ideas.”

      —L’Enfer by Henri Barbusse

       PROLOGUE

      One night in July of 1966, in a clearing beside the ferocious jungle called the Annamese Cordillera, not far from Danang, a special three-man squad was deposited by helicopter, and settled down to wait for daylight. Two were American civilians, CIA men in their late twenties. The third was Vietnamese, an ARVN specialist, a guide who’d once farmed on the fringes of the Cordillera and had as good a chance of finding his way through it as any man did. Which wasn’t saying much.

      Dressed in standard Marine fatigues, they entered the jungle at break of day. According to a map and a briefing given them at the American Embassy in Saigon, a high-ranking Viet Cong political officer would be at a clearing x-marked on the map between eleven and twelve today, which gave them five to six hours. The clearing wasn’t more than two miles away, but exactly where was the question.

      Four hours later, fatigues drenched in perspiration, they came upon a trail, on either side of which were signs of a nearby VC staging area—pangee traps, the impaling stakes fresh, and spider holes for snipers. They paused for a quick meal, and the smaller of the Americans, sporting a pencil-line mustache, unslung his rifle, a Remington 7.62mm with scope and tubular silencer. He was the sharpshooter, the hit man in this execution squad, and he had to be ready.

      They set off again, following the path, peering at the soggy soil and damp growth before their feet, trying to pick up the gleam of mine trip wires. Abruptly, the jungle darkness broke before them: a clearing. A subdued chattering of Vietnamese indicated that it was the clearing.

      On the path about fifteen meters to their left was a VC sentry shabby in patched pajama clothing. They dropped to their faces in the dampness, the dankness, and the sharpshooter tapped the guide on the ankle. The Vietnamese looked back. The sharpshooter jerked his head right, to where another sentry was just visible some twenty-five meters off through the brush.

      Voices rose in the clearing. Both VC guards craned to see what was going on.

      The three-man squad inched along on their bellies in the slime. The sharpshooter eased a shell into the chamber of his rifle. He was now able to see directly into the clearing.

      Perhaps twenty-five VC stood there, thirty at the most, their backs more or less to the assassination squad, their voices growing louder, taking on a cheering, greeting sound. The guards edged closer to the clearing to see their celebrity.

      The sharpshooter also edged closer, and saw a man in a North Vietnamese uniform and cape rising dramatically up and over the VC, being lifted onto some sort of platform.

      He stood alone, small, slight, aging; nodding and smiling. He was clearly in view.

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