Code name, p.14
Code Name, page 14
He moved like a silent shadow through the trees, maneuvering around deadfall and other obstacles in his path. In the distance he saw a fire burning brightly in the center of the camp, lighting up the formation of tents pitched around the clearing. A dozen ten-man tents were positioned in a lazy half circle. There were also a mess tent, the commander’s quarters, and the supply tent, each identified by signs hanging on their front walls.
He had all night to move up behind the supply tent, so he hid and got some rest until the time was right for his raid.
At 11:00 p.m., taps was played on a portable tape recorder, the commander yelled, “Lights out!” and lanterns in the tents went dead. The only light left was the campfire, burning lower now, tended by a lone sentry.
In the darkness, Mark took a full hour to carefully back away from the perimeter a hundred yards and move around to a position that was downwind of camp and directly behind the supply tent. Dense forest and darkness masked his movement, and wind in the trees absorbed every sound. When he found the spot he wanted, he snugged down in the duff under a snarl of deadfall and set a mental alarm clock. Here he would wait until 1:30 a.m. He was tired, had spent an enormous amount of energy on physical and emotional stress. Sleep came quickly.
****
It was early evening when Mark suddenly stopped in the middle of his story. “How does fish for dinner sound?”
“Better than my MREs,” I said.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Get a fire going in the pit, but keep it small. We want coals, not huge flames. Use those bits of wood.” He pointed to a small collection of twigs at the skirt of the hut. “They’re nearly smokeless.”
Then he was gone.
I set about getting the fire going, using my trusted Brunton windproof lighter. In 20 minutes he was back with two nice fish in hand, already cleaned and ready for the coals.
“How did you get those?” I asked.
“A primitive fish trap,” he replied. “Next time we’re out, I’ll show you.”
Things were starting to sound better. At least he wasn’t talking about killing me.
He placed the fish on the coals. “All right, let’s see, where were we?”
I looked at my notes. “You were hiding in the forest near the camp, and had set a mental alarm clock.”
He nodded. “Right. Two and a half hours later, I was stirred by a mysterious internal mechanism I didn’t understand, but that has been at work inside me all my life.”
He went on to explain that he simply woke up when his brain had determined that he should.
****
Slowly, Mark raised his wrist and looked at his watch. “Perfect,” he whispered. Then he lay completely still and listened for a long while. All was quiet in camp. He lifted his head enough to look through the tangle of deadfall. Off in the distance, he could see the rhythmic sweep of a flashlight in the motor pool. Another sentry was pulling his hours of hateful duty.
The main camp had its own guard, walking slowly, flashlight in hand, around the inside perimeter formed by the tents. As far as Mark could tell, these were the only two men awake in camp, and they were probably more asleep on their feet than truly awake. The campfire was being kept alive by the sentry, probably more to keep him company and displace the jitters than anything else.
All was quiet. Mark moved with great care as he closed the distance to the rear of the supply tent. He took his time, allowing nearly an hour to cover the hundred yards. He had all night to accomplish the simple task ahead, but if he rushed things, he could be discovered in the process.
Blake had taught him well the art of patience and stillness in the jungle. “Move like a cat, never rush,” was the Special Forces soldier’s advice. He aimed to use most of this night, if he needed it, to make sure of his success.
Camp supplies were stowed in a wall tent that was pitched over a bare dirt floor. Heavy wooden poles supported the corners and ridge points. Guy lines angled away from the corner poles and were staked to the ground. Pegs were driven into the ground at intervals along the skirt of the walls, holding the lower edge of the canvas against the ground to prevent the skirt from flapping in the wind. With this type of tent, the walls could be rolled up to allow full air circulation on a hot day.
Mark reached the rear wall at 2:18 a.m. Carefully he loosened the tie-downs from three pegs and lifted the skirt just enough to peer inside. He could hear the deep-slumber breathing of one man.
“Supply sergeant snores – that’s good,” Mark whispered.
With eyes fully adjusted to the darkness, he glanced around the room to see how it was laid out. Dim light from the campfire out front filtered through the fabric just enough to allow him to see how things were arranged.
The sleeping man was on a cot against the wall. At the foot of his bunk was an upright shelf. Directly across the room was a full wall of identical shelf units, loaded with supplies. In the center of the room was a table and a footlocker labeled ‘DISCARDS’.
“That’s what I’m looking for,” he mouthed quietly.
The shelves of new items were closely inventoried, but the discards were not. With any luck, he might be able to find something in the discard locker that suited his needs.
Quietly, he loosened two more ties so he could lift the rear wall and slip inside. He took off his shoes, left them outside so as not to leave tracks of dress shoes on the dirt floor, crawled under the canvas and moved soft as a cat to the locker. He lifted the lid slowly to feel for friction in the hinge that could possibly emit a squeak. The hinge was silky smooth.
“Excellent,” Mark whispered. “A supply sergeant who keeps things well oiled.”
Inside the footlocker was an assortment of clothing that had been damaged during camp activities. Even the slightest rip renders a uniform item unacceptable for inspection in these non-combat conditions, and must be replaced with a new item.
Mark didn’t particularly care if the clothing fit well. He picked out a pair of field pants and shirt that looked about right. There were no damaged boots in the locker, something he desperately needed. He knew that if he took a pair off the shelf, the supply sergeant would notice. Suspicions would result in a search of the area and to him.
“One of the keys to evading capture is to leave no indication of having been in an area,” Blake had taught him.
I’ll need to find a way to disguise the act, he thought.
He closed the footlocker and moved to the shelf where the boots were stored. Only a couple pair of the most popular sizes were kept ready for emergency use. Mark lifted a pair from the shelf, turned them upside down and strained to see the size embossed on the sole. But it was impossible to read in the dark.
Just then, a light pierced the tent wall, and Mark froze.
It was the sweep of the sentry’s flashlight as it hit the canvas wall and briefly illuminated the room.
The supply sergeant snorted and rolled over. The light swept away and left the room dark again. Anticipating the next sweep of light, Mark turned the soles of the boots toward his face and waited. The room began to glow again. Suddenly, he could see that the boots in his hand were marked 10R.
Just my size, he thought.
He moved back to the table, where the other clothes were piled. As he lifted the bundle, something fell with a thunk. Immediately, the flashlight beam was on the tent wall.
“Who’s in there?” the sentry yelled.
“There might be times when it’s kill or be killed,” Blake had told him. “You hope it’ll never come to that, but sometimes it can’t be avoided. The power of your chi will help you know.”
Blake was a master with tai chi. “Some folks think tai chi is just for exercise,” he told Mark. “That’s only part of it. The fact is that all the Oriental martial arts have their origin in the moves of tai chi.”
“It looks like a dance.” Mark was very young when he said that.
“That’s because you are only seeing the move, not the energy.”
“What energy?”
“Chi is the life force. It is pure energy. The practice of tai chi trains you to channel and focus this exceedingly powerful energy.”
Blake could see Mark was still confused.
“Don’t worry. In time you will be able to feel it in your hands and fingers and feet and every part of your body. You’ll feel the warmth as the chi builds inside you.”
“How does that help in a fight?”
“When you master tai chi, you will need only a small movement to do a great amount of damage to an opponent.”
“Wow,” young Mark had exclaimed.
“Not only that, but you will learn to understand your opponent’s thoughts. You will sense what he is going to do before he does it. You will feel his chi and know if he is a threat. This is powerful.”
“Who’s in there?” the sentry yelled again.
Mark silently crouched into the shadow beneath the table. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and felt the warmth move like electricity through his body. Every muscle was balanced between tension and relaxation, ready to spring into action.
The supply sergeant rolled over and shouted, “Who do you think is in here? Can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep?”
The front tent flap flew open and the flashlight strafed the tent interior and landed on the sergeant.
Mark felt for the sentry’s thoughts.
“I heard something,” the young soldier apologized,weakness quavering in his voice.
“Get that light out of my eyes!” the sergeant barked. The flashlight turned against the far wall.
Fear. The flashlight is trembling.
“What do you mean you heard something?”
The sentry shuffled his feet. “Yes, sergeant, a thud.”
Escape. He is mentally backing up, even while physically standing still. He wants to be anywhere but in this tent. He is no threat.
“Well what do you think, I fell out of bed?”
“No sergeant. It’s just that—”
“Get out of my tent corporal, or you’ll be wearing mosquito wings by morning!”
“Right, sergeant.”
The sentry scurried out of the tent, securing the tie straps as he went.
Mark remained hidden beneath the table. He breathed deeply, slowly, silently, his thoughts now probing the supply sergeant. Nothing. No alarm in the man’s mind, only irritation. He will go back to sleep. No one will die tonight.
The supply sergeant growled, “Stupid punk kids! Where does the army get these guys?” Then he rolled back over and almost immediately began snoring.
Mark waited until the snoring was loud, relaxed and uninterrupted. On silent feet, he crept to the front tent flap and released the tie straps. Then he slipped out the rear wall opening where he had come in and secured all the tie-downs. With the bundle under his arm, he put his shoes on and worked his way back into the forest, careful to leave no tracks.
When he reached the place where he had slept, he deposited the clothing under the deadfall. Then he headed back toward camp once more, with the pair of brand new jungle boots in his hands.
Over the next hour, Mark visited two tents where the bone-weary men slept. Footlockers at the base of each cot held personal items and clothing, but each man’s boots were sitting beneath the foot of the bunk. He entered each tent the same way he had done to the supply tent. When he left, he restored the tie-downs to their original tension.
In the second tent, he found the pair of boots he wanted. Leaving the new boots where the old ones had been, Mark slipped out of the tent, secured the ties and disappeared into the forest.
“Sorry buddy,” Mark whispered as he crept away. He knew that the man with the new boots would be accused of stealing them from the supply tent, and undoubtedly have a hard time explaining what happened to his old boots and why he had the new ones. But the evidence would be on his feet and the loose tie straps on the supply tent door would be incriminating. He would have no way out.
It was 3:53 a.m. when Mark made his final trip into camp. “Now for the food,” he whispered.
Perishable foods and C-rations were stored in the mess tent. Three boxes were all he could carry, and he felt safe that the rations would not be missed. They weren’t tightly inventoried, because they were used in great numbers every day.
Back at the deadfall, Mark dressed in field pants and a jungle shirt, each with large cargo pockets. He opened the C-rations and sorted the contents evenly into each pocket. To keep the cans from rattling, he tore up the cardboard boxes and used the material to insulate between the cans and then he stuffed the pockets with decayed leaves and pine duff from the forest floor.
The pockets bulged, and he had to be careful not to snag them on bushes and trees as he traveled. But he had food for at least a couple of days. He would have to find water as he went.
****
“It was nearly 5:00 a.m. when I finally moved out,” Mark said. “I wanted to have some miles behind me before the troops rolled out of their bunks and the issue of the boots came up.
“As I hiked through the forest with my suit and shoes bundled under my arm, I made sure I left no visible trail. Later, I would have to destroy the suit and dress shoes, or hide them so as not to leave a clue that I had been in the area. For now I had miles to travel before full sunlight hit the forest floor and forced me into hiding.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Pages 26–35, notebook #2
As Mark traveled east toward the softly glowing horizon, the land sloped gently downward ahead of him. The muffled sound of cars in the distance told him that a highway was nearby. He had no doubt that every police agency in the state was hunting him, and he needed to avoid roads.
****
“This morning, I expected to hear the sound of helicopters – and maybe dogs,” Mark said. “I followed the slope of the land and picked my way through the forest as quickly as possible, trying to put some miles between myself and the awakening camp.”
****
In the distance, a smoky haze mingled among the upper branches of the trees; then a horrible smell brought him up short. He sniffed the air; it was an odor he had smelled before – a garbage dump. He kept going, and the farther he walked, the more intense became the smoke and the smell. The darkness of the forest was suddenly interrupted by a clearing and a dirt road that seemed to lead toward the smoke.
Careful to stay out of sight within the fringe of the forest, Mark walked parallel to the road. Within a few minutes, he was standing on the edge of a large excavated pit. A smoldering fire burned in one corner of the hollow, and an ancient yellow Caterpillar sat idle near a small tin shed. No one was around. It was too early for business. The sun wasn’t even above the horizon.
Mark jogged into the pit and went directly to the smoke. With his foot, he kicked the pile of smoldering trash, raising it enough to allow air to get underneath. It instantly burst into a small blaze. Mark fed his suit, shirt and shoes into the fire. Then he stepped around to the downwind side and stood in the smoke. Rotating as if he were on a broiler spit, he exposed every side of himself to the acrid fumes.
With eyes tightly clenched against the biting smoke, he bent toward the fire and ran his fingers through his hair, allowing the smoke full access to his scalp. He stepped quickly into and back out of the flames and stomped his feet through the ashes, lightly singeing his clothing.
Before leaving the pit, he went to the spot that had been set aside for dumping yard waste – vegetable matter that would rot and molder into compost. There, in a musty pile of decomposing rot, Mark lay down and rolled over and over in the stinking, moldy mess.
Then back to the smoke he went, in part to dry himself from the damp garbage, and in part to seal the horrible smell into the fabric. He wanted as much of the offensive aroma on him as he could get, because it would help erase his own natural smell.
Freed of the burden of carrying his clothing, he could move more easily now. He climbed out of the pit and walked back into the forest, heading southeast on a course that would eventually take him to the coast, but only if he got past the ten-mile cordon.
In torn army fatigues that were like something out of a bad surplus store, Mark looked like a bum.
****
“I was covered with enough filth to make it appear I had lived on the streets and in dumpsters for months,” Mark said.
“The change in my appearance served me well, but I knew I had to change more than just my clothes. I decided to let my hair grow long, acquire a beard and mustache, and do everything else I could to alter my physical looks until no one who had known me before would recognize me.”
****
Morning was upon him, and he needed to find a place to hole-up during daylight hours. In the distance, he heard the whop-whop of a rapidly approaching helicopter, and he thought he heard the sound of baying hounds. He feared the dogs the most.
The chopper worried him. This close to D.C., it could be an air taxi, but also be a search chopper, loaded with infrared scanners. If it was a chopper with infrared capability, it would see his body heat even through a canopy of trees. If that happened, the dog-handlers would be moved forward immediately.
From the edge of the forest, Mark looked up and down the dirt road that ran parallel to his course. Dirt roads need drainage systems, and if he found what he was looking for, it would offer protection even better than the heaviest forest.
The helicopter was getting louder. He ran toward the road and looked both ways. There, twenty yards farther on, he saw what he was looking for – a culvert – a corrugated metal drainage pipe that passed beneath the road. The thick metal culvert and the soil above it would shield his body heat from infrared scanners, if any were being used.
****
“I sprinted toward the tunnel,” Mark said excitedly. “The sound of the chopper was almost upon me. I took three final strides and lunged, hit the ground and clawed my way into the dark hole.”
