The Huey roared high in the sky.
The jungle was dotted with a long series of small mountains.
If you looked down below carefully you could see the small rivers that cut through the vegetation at times, and Ortega was as nervous as a child.
Unlike Ortega, Trautman – who was sitting beside him at the time aboard the Huey –Ortega, seemed calm as he took in the panorama below them.
At one point, to make himself heard over the roar of the rotors', the Colonel shouted:
"In five minutes, we'll be 12 kilometres south of Quin Loa, and once there, we might be shot at with some anti-air shots. But no big deal...”
Ortega nodded although perplexed.
His flight back from the United States had only landed about six hours ago United States, so he was still feeling the jet lag and, after drinking some Vietnamese water, diarrhoea too.
“I brought you with me because occasionally a team leader needs to do a Colonel’s job,” Trautman said, interrupting his thoughts.
Ortega nodded as he continued to look down.
He moved his XM rifle forward, bringing it closer to him.
Little did he know that his gesture would turn out to be a premonition.
Below them, a light that seemed no larger than the head of a pin, lit up. Immediately afterwards, a tracer passed them, but clearly missed.
It was only then that they distinctly heard the shot.
“There they are,” said Trautman.
Ortega turned to the cabin, and saw the pilot raise his hand.
“Don't worry!” he shouted.
“We’re out of range. They’re just doing it to let us know they’ve seen us. They think we're about to drop a recon team.”
Despite the assurances, Ortega still didn’t feel safe. Not in the slightest sense.
In fact, the machine gun on the ground fired a couple more shots before it stopped.
There were only, something like, five shots in all, and yes, every shot missed their Huey by far. They did however reach us as quickly as lightening despite the altitude and with ease, disappearing in the clouds.
In reality, what all this meant was that their Huey actually wasn't really out of range for that calibre in the least.
“Trautman,” Ortega began.
The Colonel turned around.
“Aren't you too important to run risks like these?”
“Son... If I never actually went out field to see what was happening, I’d be as stupid as the DC bigwigs idiots are. Those dickheads in Washington only know how to push buttons from a fucking desk.”
***
The two men reached their destination, later that same evening.
Surrounding the village was a wall of wooden poles that had sharp tips at the top. They were the kind you’d see in old movies set in the Wild West.
Ortega had never seen anything like it.
The entire village welcomed them, and almost in a parade: they were dark skinned men with long beards. They were clearly of a completely different ethnic origin unlike anyone else in Vietnam.
In an effort to break the seriousness of the scene, about a dozen half-naked children took care of it. The group of children were playing right behind them, chasing each other in the mud left from recent showers, indifferent to them.
Nevertheless, the parade presented for Trautman's arrival had an official taste anyway.
The young men were all rigorously standing in front of the old and in silence.
Evidently, the village men knew of Trautman's arrival hours in advance.
Most women were naked up top, and one of them was breast-feeding the baby in her arms.
They were extremely different from anything else Ortega had seen before then.
He fell in love with them immediately however, right then and there, at the first sight.
After a while, the old man smiled at them, from ear to ear, as he left them.
He then walked up to Trautman, holding his arms wide and genuinely happy to see him.
As Trautman moved forward to greet the old man, he gave Ortega the impression – again, only an impression – that Trautman was quite touched by it all.
First, the two men hugged, and then patted each other on the back.
“I was afraid you couldn't make it,” Trautman said in perfect Vietnamese.
“There were days I thought the same, my friend, – the old man said to him - but you and Nelson taught us well. Also that Nelson is no longer with us, see? See? We are still alive, and more important of all, we are still here. We did it. You see?”
“Yes, I do! Besides, I knew how you were doing when I was back in the US, and I’ve always tried to do whatever I could for you. “
“There's no need for saying it, big commander. I know you are true friend already. Everybody knows it here,” he said, gesturing to the people surrounding them.
***
Trautman introduced Ortega to the village chief. The Baker Team would not only live there from now on, but they’d be defending the village as well, if need be.
Prior to discussing business however, there were some pleasantries to get through.
The ritual consisted of sitting on the ground and drinking with the elders through long
straws all together, from the same huge jug.
“Drink – Trautman said in English to avoid being understood by the Montagnards.
“And don't puke under any circumstances, got it?”
Then he raised an eyebrow and added:
"That's an order, soldier.”
The 'drink' in question was some kind of unidentified substance that smelt strongly of vomit.
Ortega drank and held back the spasms (like the true Baker Team man he was) with a smile. His show of appreciation for it was almost perfectly believable.
At least it’s high in alcohol – Ortega thought to himself, still smiling a smile of circumstance.
At any rate, there shouldn't be any germs in it.
In theory, that is.
When the Montagnards saw that Ortega could keep the stuff down, they burst into a chorus of approval. That’s when he realized that it was nothing more than of test.
Afterwards, during the chatter and laughing, Ortega turned his head slightly towards Trautman making sure no one was listening, he whispered:
“You’ve definitely made us eat shit these past two years, sir. But this....”
Trautman interrupted by giving him a hard pat on the shoulder.
“Drink some more,” he said.
“Oh Christ.”
Consequently, there was one more try, one more sip and one more round of applause from the Montagnards genuinely surprised by Ortega's performance.
Fortunately, the drink was strong tasting and high in alcohol or its vile odour would have got the better of him.
In fact, it was so high in alcohol that shorty after Ortega finished drinking it, everything he heard started sounding funny, and that included Colonel Trautman. At one point, Ortega was laughing so hard at Trautman that he fell off the chair.
Christ, am I fucking drunk already?
How pure is this stuff? Seventy percent proof? Eighty maybe?
That was then that one of the elders took Ortega by the shoulders and pilled him up a little.
The old man pushed his index finger against his stomach – and with a fair amount of strength as well – that Ortega had to hold down a belch and keep from puking.
The old man laughed.
What kind of a joke was that?
The village chief turned to Trautman and asked if the rest of the team were as tough as Ortega was. Trautman smiled and answered that they were. He guaranteed it personally.
With that, the old man got up and the Colonel followed suit, and as the others in the room noticed, they all became quiet and looked on with interest.
“They are my men and brothers, and I guarantee for them with my life.”
The old man sat quietly while he listened with interest as Trautman pledged, until finally nodding to show his accord.
After what felt like an eternity, and all was said and done there was a moment of silence before any cheerful chatting got underway. Ortega on the contrary, had a very serious expression on his face as he sat staring at Trautman.
The Colonel hadn’t filled them in on quite a few things apparently, when it came to that village.
“Just a few final targets in Dak To,” said the Colonel, referring to the Phoenix program.
“Then you and your team will move in here.”