Duty to Kill: A Novel
by J.W. Stone
The following is excerpted from J.W. Stone’s latest novel, Duty to Kill, Book 2 in the Mike Beck series.
PROLOGUE
Most Marines thought the assignment of Second Lieutenant Evert Easterday as 3rd Platoon Commander was a mistake, but today he led the platoon in the largest battle since Chosin Reservoir. He stood in the middle of the street watching Corporal Reggie Miller’s blood flow across the pavement to a pool where it joined the blood of a dead Vietcong. The Vietcong had raised the manhole cover, crawled out of the sewer tunnel, and shot Miller in the back. Although severely wounded, Miller somehow managed to kill the Vietcong. The corps- man shoved his hand up towards Miller’s groin, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.
Easterday shouted at Miller’s squad leader, Corporal Franklin, “Go get Carson and Jones, ASAP!”
Easterday then bent down towards the sewer entrance, smelled the foul odor, and listened for sounds inside. He thought about Cpl. Miller and tried to control his anger. The best in the platoon, Miller could hump more gear than any other Marine, could move silently through the jungles of Vietnam, could hear the faintest noise, and could see the slightest movement. He always volunteered for point, and without fail, he spotted the enemy first. Due to Miller, most of the Marines in the 3rd Platoon would go home.
Searching for Carson and Jones, Corporal Franklin waded through the mud of the narrow streets, scaled an ancient stone fence, and ducked inside a bombed-out building, then ran out the back door into the next street. Hue City looked like a scene from a World War I movie, with almost every building destroyed or burning. The Marines of Bravo Company were pinned down by Vietcong bunkered inside a house perfectly situated to block any northward movement.
Over the years, the Marines had honed their skills as jungle fight- ers, but they had difficulty adapting to the close-quarter street fighting inside Hue City. Dozens of Marines would die taking a house, only to find it empty because the Vietcong had crossed to the next row of buildings or ducked back down one of the manholes and into the sewer tunnels.
Franklin found Carson and Jones crouched behind an abandoned French Citroen sports car and yelled over the noise of the battle: “Charlie, Lieutenant Easterday wants to see you and Jones, ASAP!” At that, he motioned for Corporal Charles Carson and PFC Kenneth Jones to follow, and the three worked their way back to where he had left Easterday.
“Corporal Carson, the enemy came out of this manhole, I need this cleared. Find out what is down there.” Easterday spoke in a loud, but calm, voice.
Without speaking, Carson and Jones handed Cpl. Franklin their rifles, 5.56 ammunition pouches, Alice packs, and canteens, and stripped down to their green T-shirts. Each carried only a Colt 1911 pistol, .45 caliber ammunition, bayonets, and flashlights.
“PFC Jones, I will take point. Stay as far back as possible and do not move forward unless you hear shooting.” Carson carefully slid face-first down the manhole entrance. Then he crawled down, stopped, and listened for a long time. As he stared intensely into the pitch-black sewer tunnel, he saw and heard nothing, and smelled only the damp stench of fresh sewage. While he mentally debated whether to feel his way along or turn on his flashlight, his pulse started to race, and panic grew inside his stomach. With his senses kicked into overdrive, Carson inched forward, listening, smelling, and watching for anything in the dark.
After 15 minutes, the top of his head touched the bricks of the an- tiquated tunnel wall in front of him, and he made out the intersection of tunnels to the left and the right. With his stomach in his throat, and the fear increasing, Carson turned to his right. In a short distance, he could feel another intersection. This time there were three choices, straight, left, or right. He chose left, still sneaking along in complete darkness, and ignoring the raw sewage flowing on the floor. He walked and crawled for another half an hour, a distance he estimated at 400 yards.
Although Carson had cleared many Vietcong tunnels in the Que Son Mountains, he sensed something different about the old Hue City sewer tunnels. The intense blackness now horrified him, and he desperately wanted to turn on his flashlight, but he realized that at this point it would be suicide. Each step produced a growing sense of impending doom. He saw nothing and heard only his heavy breathing, but his heart pounded. An intense tremor racked his right hand, and he could barely hold on to the Colt pistol. His right leg was unsteady and shook violently every time he stopped to listen for sounds.
A noise! Faint, muted.
As he listened to make out what he had just heard, Carson’s fear started to overwhelm him. His instincts were screaming at him to haul ass back towards PFC Jones and the tunnel entrance. But for some reason, he could not move. He just stood with his arms and legs shaking. His hair stood on end in panic.
For an agonizingly long time, Carson wrestled with his duty to stay and the guilt of leaving. Finally, he did something he had never done before — he turned and started sneaking back towards the en- trance. He felt beaten.
At first, he crawled along in the darkness. But then he jumped to his feet, turned on his flashlight, and ran as fast as he could move in the small tunnel. He ran to the intersection and then to the left. He ran for another 100 yards to another intersection, turned right for 10 yards, stopped, and turned off his flashlight. He sat down in the black, ignoring the filth, and pointing the Colt pistol towards the tunnel in- tersection. He just sat there shaking in terror. After five minutes, he saw a light and someone coming down the tunnel to the left of the intersection. Carson fought not to vomit and now shook so violently that it took both hands to hold on to his pistol. The light grew stronger.
In one instant, the person stepped out into Carson’s tunnel and turned the bright light on him. Although paralyzed by terror, Carson managed to pull the trigger, and the Colt pistol flashed and fired its 45-caliber bullet. The burst of light destroyed Carson’s night vision, and the ear-splitting boom disoriented him. Gradually, Carson rec- ognized a flashlight laying on the floor shining through the liquid at the opposite wall. He slowly crawled over to pick it up.
To his horror, he identified the flashlight as a Marine Corps’ issued MX-991/U. He grabbed it and pointed it toward the body. There was not much left of the face, but Carson recognized the body of PFC Jones.
Carson almost collapsed but managed to pull Jones out of the ef- fluent and propped his back against the wall. The blood flowed on Carson and soaked his T-shirt, but he did not care. His eyes teared. He started to wail in pure terror, like a child crying out for their mother. Loudly bawling, he did not care if a Vietcong heard him or came to kill him. He wanted to die. He just sat in the dim light of the flashlight, sobbing and sobbing.
After half an hour, Carson stopped crying. He turned off the flash- light and sat in the dark, just trying to think for another ten minutes. Suddenly, Carson was blinded by another muzzle blast and explosion and fell backward. He felt the intense pain where the bullet had ripped through his stomach. He instantly fired the Colt 1911 pistol toward the attacker, heard the moan, and saw the body fall to the floor.
Again, Carson found himself sitting on the tunnel floor staring at the light from a flashlight pointed at the wall. The warm wetness of his stomach wound soaked his pants. His sight stayed blurry. With each breath, pain seared its way through his body. As the cloudiness engulfed his mind, he thought about giving up, just curling up and dying.
After an hour, Carson opened his eyes and listened. Drawing on the last fumes of his reserve strength, he crept towards the second flashlight. It was not Marine Corps issued, and he felt a surge of elation beyond anything he had ever known. A Soviet nine-millimeter Makarov pistol lay next to the dead Vietcong.
Carson started crawling down the tunnel and back towards the entrance, gently and reverently dragging Jones’s body.
Chapter 1
“I can’t believe Sergeant Jones was a no-show!” Corporal Jacobs repeated for the third time in the last hour.
The lack of a turret and numerous antennas made the amphibious tractor parked ramp down between two camouflage nets easily recognizable as an AAVC-7A1 command vehicle. The radio-intercept aerials sprung from its roof-like spines on a sea urchin. Manufactured 18 years earlier by FMC Corporation, this one had been extensively upgraded, and improved, through the years. It now had a 400- horsepower Cummins engine, enhanced armor, and a desert yellow paint job.
Parked in the Mohave Desert, just outside Camp Wilson, Marine Corps Base Twentynine Palms, California, three Marines sat cross-legged on the amtrac’s ramp, like a cowboy, and two Indians smoking a peace pipe. Instead of a pipe, they passed around field manuals for the PRC-105 UFH radio, encryption units, and other components of the amtrac’s communications system. White salt rings from sweating caked their tanker overalls, and dark crescents of fatigue circled beneath their eyes. A five-ton truck lumbered past them, covering them with another layer of dust.
“God damn it! I sure wish Sergeant Jones was here; he would know what to do!” Cpl. Jacobs continued with his unmistakable Ozark drawl.
As acting communications chief, Cpl. Jacobs, as well as the other Marines in the battalion, felt a sense of betrayal that Sgt. Nathan Jones failed to report for the unit’s recent mobilization. A near-mythical figure, popular and respected, to have Sgt. Jones not report for duty deeply touched everyone in the communications section. His motive remained so incomprehensible that no solid rumor emerged to address it. Instead, everyone hoped that any day he would show up, have a good reason for missing movement, and go back to work as the communications chief. No one wanted to deploy for combat without him.
Lieutenant Colonel Evert Easterday, the 4th Tanks’ Commanding Officer, ignored Jacobs’ remarks. Easterday was an infantry officer with extensive combat experience in Vietnam. He won the Bronze Star at Hue City. He was now a civilian attorney but continued to serve in the Marine Corps as a reservist.
First Lieutenant Bob Ward, the Communications Officer, also ignored Jacobs’ whining and kept his face buried inside the field manuals. Lieutenant Ward was prior-enlisted, a big man — simply mountainous — with a perpetually shaved scalp and huge body- builder arms. Unfortunately, since the unit arrived last week for mobilization training at Marine Corps Base Twentynine Palms, California Lieutenant Ward had done nothing but play with his radios, turning them on and off, cleaning the microphone terminals, and endlessly trying to contact the Air Operations Officer.
The radio repair manuals were difficult to comprehend. LtCol. Easterday would ask Lt. Ward or Cpl. Jacobs to clarify a paragraph or diagram, and from time to time, he would also read out loud a section from a manual that earlier in the day generated discussion. But at this point, Ward and Jacobs simply met his readings with blank stares and continued to bitch about Sgt. Nathan Jones’ absence.
“It has to be the encryption override switch,” Jacobs stated positively. Ward remained silent for a moment, as he thought about Ja- cobs’ diagnosis.
“Corporal Jacobs, do we have a replacement switch?” Easterday asked.
“No, sir.”
“How long to get one?”
“A long time, maybe ten days… maybe a month.”
Lieutenant Colonel Easterday did not have much time; he had to get communications up before the battalion training exercise the next morning.
“Any other ideas?”
For a moment, Cpl. Jacobs pretended to be thinking, then looked over at Lt. Ward, hoping he would volunteer an answer.
“I guess not,” Jacobs finally responded.
“Damn it! Does nobody have a workaround? I remember Sergeant Jones came up with a fix during the Pinnacle Advance Exercise last year. But you’re saying you don’t have one?” Easterday yelled with anger in his voice.
“Maybe we could call Colonel Wick over at Fourth Division?” Cpl. Jacobs responded. Easterday, with a blank expression, gazed out across Camp Wilson.
“What do you think, Ward?”
“I hate to bother Colonel Wick again, but we’ve been running rabbits down holes for three days. Corporal Jacobs, you make that call.” Ward answered.
“Sir, if I try and call, I know Colonel Wick is going to be pissed. Yesterday, he told me to stop calling him and to keep reading the manuals. He has no replacement switches.”
“All right; let’s get him on the horn. I’ll do the talking,” Easterday said.
At that, all three stood up and moved inside the cramped space of the amtrac which was packed with flickering computer screens and radios. The closed air of the amtrac smelled rich with the heat of the radios like a hot clothing iron sitting on an ironing board. Garbled chatter hissed from the overhead speakers, and the other amtrac crewmembers crouched over the steel bench and strained to hear incoming reports.
Ward, Jacobs, and Easterday strapped themselves into one of the eight canvas-covered seats, slid on tanker helmets, and adjusted their microphones. The hot afternoon air mixed their body odor with the smell of radios, diesel fuel, dust, and hot steel. Jacobs turned on one of the RT-442 radios, pulled out his laminated frequency card, and changed the frequency to the non-tactical administrative net for 4th Division. Static crackled in the headset almost immediately. He listened for a moment, then looked at Easterday, and gave him a visual thumbs up.
“Romeo Three Tango, this is Yankee Nine India, over.” Easterday spoke clearly and slowly.
“Yankee Nine India, this is Romeo Three Tango, over.”
“This is Fourth Tanks’ Six, can you put the Operations Officer on? Over.”
“Wait one.”
“Go ahead, Easterday.” Col. Wick announced unenthusiastically. “Lieutenant Ward and I are making no progress on our radios. We are possum-fucked. Can you help us?”
“Sorry, Easterday, everyone is having problems with the PRC-105 UFHs. It’s the encryption override switch. We can’t get replacements.”
“Colonel Wick, I know the manual says no workaround, but last year, during the Pinnacle Advance Exercise, our communications chief, Sergeant Jones, came up with a solution.”
“Yeah, I remember that. What has happened to Sergeant Jones? Still UA?”
“No word yet. But like you, I believe Sergeant Jones may show up any day,” Easterday answered sadly. “But until we get these radios up, we’re dead in the water for tomorrow’s exercise. What am I supposed to do?”
“Sorry, Easterday, I don’t have an answer. Without communications, I am expecting the exercise to be a complete cluster fuck.”
Easterday looked towards Ward and Jacobs, holding the key off the mike.
“Anything else?”
They shook their heads, and Easterday keyed the mike.
“Colonel Wick. Thanks for your time. If anyone comes up with a workaround, please let us know ASAP.”
“Roger that. If things change, I will be in touch immediately.” “Out.”
The three pulled off their helmets, spun their chairs, and frowned at each other. Jacobs looked at the PRC-105 UFH radio in front of his position as though it were the first time he had ever seen it and started reading the manual again.
“All right, Corporal Jacobs, keep trying. Lieutenant Ward, we better get some chow. Patrol brief at the S-3 tent at 1800.”
The roar of the Ford V-8 engine died down as Nathan Jones pulled in the clutch and applied the brake. Black crude oil covered Nathan’s face, work shirt, gloves, and boots. His derrick hand, Vertis Smith, threw in the pipe vice and grabbed the sucker-rod end. As Vertis aligned the rod over the hole, Nathan eased off the pulling unit brake and let the rod down with the perfect amount of tension to start the threads. Vertis cranked the wrench, and Nathan could see his rod- man, Ernie Johnson, stumbling back to the end of the rod basket.
Oil Well #26 stood on the Baker Lease located in the Wabash River Bottoms five miles southeast of Caryville, Illinois in the middle of a harvested corn field blanketed with a foot of snow. Crown Oil Company completed the well in 1957 and set the casing pipe at 2,700 feet, a fairly deep oil well for Southern Illinois, and one that took eight hours to pull the pump from the bottom, repair it, and run it back down. Nathan Jones had been at this well site in all kinds of weather — summer heat, fall rain, and winter snow. However, Nathan could not remember a day as bad as today’s blizzard.
Ernie Johnson liked to drink whiskey, especially on cold days. At three o’clock, he declared that he felt sick, stopped working, and crawled inside the truck cab. Nathan remained silent. The old man appeared drunk, but nothing could change that now. Normally, the loss of a crewman would shut down a pulling unit, but both Nathan and Vertis could run rods with just a two-man crew. It slowed their progress considerably, but they kept adding sucker rods and lower- ing the string back into the hole.
“Holy shit!” Vertis exclaimed at the sight of Curley Harris’ pickup truck. Nathan considered getting Ernie out of the truck and on his feet, but it appeared too late. Curley parked, walked to the truck, and spit out his wad of chewing tobacco. He opened the door, grabbed Ernie’s coat collar, and drug him out, throwing him on the frozen ground.
Ernie stumbled to his feet, pleading: “I am sick, Curley! Real bad sick!”
Not saying anything, Curley swung at Ernie, hitting him in the face and knocking him down again. He then started kicking and stomping Ernie with cruel expertise that scared Nathan and Vertis. Ernie curled up in a ball and pleaded with Curley.
“Please stop, Curley. I am an old man. I get sick in the cold.”
“Where is it, you son-of-a-bitch?” Curley shouted and continued to kick Ernie on the ground.
“Where is it?”
Nathan dove between Curley and Ernie. He stood over Ernie. A pinched look formed on Curley’s face, and he moved towards Nathan until their faces were only inches apart.
“Get your ass out of my way, Nathan. I am not putting up with this bullshit. Ernie knows he has an ass-kicking coming.”
Nathan did not answer but continued to block Ernie from Curley. Curley’s eyes went wild. He spun back and to the right and swung hard; the right uppercut connecting with Nathan’s jaw. In Curley’s lifetime that punch had knocked out a dozen other men, but Nathan stood there, seemingly unhurt, not hitting back, but not moving. Curley started to throw another punch but somehow marshaled his anger. The two men glared at each other for a long time, neither back- ing down. Finally, Curley spoke, slowly and carefully like he was in- structing someone to disarm a bomb.
“Either get your fists up or get out of my way.”
“I won’t hit you, Curley, but I can’t just stand by and watch. Vertis and I can finish this well without Ernie, no problem.”
Curley’s anger left, replaced by confusion. Ernie managed to stand and raise his hands.
“It’s under the driver’s seat, Curley. I’ll get back to work.”
Out of breath, Ernie bent over in pain. Curley gave Ernie a long-disgusted look, moved to the driver’s side of the pulling unit, opened the door, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Four Roses whiskey. He poured it on the snow.
“You old bastard! You’re lucky to have a friend like Nathan. Now get your ass over there and finish this well.” Curley walked back to his pickup, stopped, and yelled back. “I am warning you, Ernie, if you get one of these men hurt, I will kill you myself.”
“OK, Curley,” Ernie replied as he hurried over to the rod basket.
“Nathan, I want to talk to you when you get back to the shop. You let Ernie do the cleanup.”
The shop building at Harris Well Service looked like a shack, but the coal stove kept the place warm. Three framed walls, one with a large window, separated Curley’s desk from the rest of the building. Nathan knocked on the glass, and Curley motioned him in. Nathan hurried inside and sat in the dilapidated chair. Curley pulled out a stack of cash from the center drawer.
“Here’s everything I owe you through today, plus one thousand dollars for your vacation time,” Curley said nervously. When he spoke, he slipped his chewing tobacco against one cheek, and that side of his face bulged out.
“You have a right to fire me, but you don’t owe me vacation time? I ain’t taken it.”
“Look, Nathan,” Curley growled. “You take this for Emma Lee. I am trying to help you, God damn it. I saw the newspaper this after- noon.”
“What newspaper?”
“The Evansville Press! The picture of you burning your draft card?”
“I didn’t burn a draft card. Hell, Curley, there ain’t no draft.”
It took a moment for Curley to settle back in his chair, and start chewing again, thinking. “Well, I don’t know what the hell you call it today, but your picture is on the front page at some peace rally in St. Louis. You are burning something.”
Nathan nodded weakly.
“It won’t take long for that red-neck Sheriff to come looking for you. That bastard would love to have any excuse to shoot a black man. Please, son…go home right now, keep your eye out for the Sheriff, and leave Caryville as soon as possible.”
“Curley, I didn’t expect this,” Nathan said, speaking with difficulty.
“I sure didn’t plan on leaving you shorthanded this winter.”
“Listen, there are plenty of good hands looking for work. Now get moving.”
By the time he left Harris Well Service, the sun had set, the tempera- ture had dropped, and the roads had iced over. Soon, it started snow- ing again. Nathan drove the moss green 1976 Dodge D100 very slowly. He did not want to go off in a ditch or get stuck in a snowbank on the way home. As he maneuvered in the snow, he thought about what he could tell his grandmother and began to regret his decision not to report for mobilization.
A half-mile out, Nathan decided he needed to avoid the steep front driveway leading to his grandmother’s house. He turned into the south gate of their farm onto the old oilfield lease road. He concentrated on keeping the Dodge exactly centered in the road to avoid the grader ditches. The clouds blocked the moonlight, and the snow- flakes swirled in front of his headlights and windshield. Nathan began to doubt whether he would make it to the house and struggled to find the cattle guard located at the fence line. Finally, he felt his tires rumble over the cattle guard, and soon he was at the house.
At one time there had been a sea of oil under the Jones’ farm, but the Jones family never owned a drop. During the boom in the 1940s, the original owners severed the mineral rights from the surface rights, moved to Chicago, and lived off the royalties. Granddad Jones had the hassle of dealing with the oil company destroying his land but none of the benefits. It did not much matter anymore, because almost all the oil wells had played out.
After parking his pickup as close to the house as possible, Nathan opened the door to a flurry of snowflakes that pelted his face. He hur- ried to the back porch and pulled off his rubber boots, jumper, and overalls before stepping through the back door into the warmth of the kitchen. His Grandma, Emma Lee Jones, had supper on the table, fried deer steaks from a buck Nathan shot, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans canned from their garden. A thick, meaty aroma filled the house. Nathan sat in the chair closest to the door and slipped on the pair of cowboy boots he left there that morning. Emma Lee sat down, said grace, and they started the meal. When they had finished eating, Emma Lee stood to clear the table.
“Grandma, can you sit back down for a minute? I gotta say something.”
Nathan’s grandmother looked frightened, and Nathan tried to speak but couldn’t for a long time.
“I failed to report to the Marine Corps for active duty. I have to leave. Jeremiah will take care of you.”
Nathan then saw the look of confusion and the tears well up in his grandmother’s eyes.
“Nathan, I’ve never understood why you, or your dad, wanted to join the Marines. But it’s too late now. You should turn yourself in tomorrow. If you do that, Nathan, it can’t be that bad. If you run away, they will kill you.”
“As a Christian, I can’t be a part of this war,” Nathan said sadly.
“Of course, Nathan. But please don’t do this. Stay here. We can pray together for peace. That’s all a Christian can do.”
“My unit shipped out of St. Louis last weekend. They are at Twentynine Palms, California, getting ready to go to Saudi Arabia. What if there’s war? I would have to kill another person. I can’t risk that.”
Emma Lee’s mouth dropped open, her shoulders slumped, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Nathan, please don’t leave. Stay here with me. God will take care of us.”
“Maybe I can figure out a way to go back to the Marines. But I can’t do that right now. I need to pray on it. I cannot say — just cannot explain it right now.”
Emma Lee walked unsteadily to the kitchen sink, grabbed the edge with both hands, and stared out the window into the snow. Her head dropped forward, and a shudder went through her body. Na- than heard a helpless moan. Then she started to sob, deep sobs, that shook her shoulders. Nathan watched his grandma cry. He rushed over and held her close.
“I am sorry, Grandma. I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me, but I have to leave. Curley says the Sheriff will come looking for me tomorrow.”
Emma Lee continued to weep and started washing the dishes.
About the Author: J.W. Stone is an exceptional author with 30 years of military service. His debut novel, Duty to Investigate, is also available from Warriors Publishing Group. Stone was with the Marines in Iraq during the Battle of Fallujah and developed a unique perspective on modern warfare. His writing brims with action, real characters, and a deep understanding of courage and commitment, both from the perspective of the grunts on the ground and the highest-ranking officers.