Read The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) for Free Online Page B

him to turn quickly, his head would be for ever banging on the roof. The Tunnel Rats fought a war like no other – deep underground, in the dark, never knowing what danger the darkness held, moving by touch towards an enemy they couldn’t see. They were all volunteers. Had to be, because there was no way a man could be forced to go underground to fight. Most soldiers couldn’t cope with the darkness and heat, never mind the booby-traps and the Viet Cong. Horvitz must have had a reason for wanting to go underground. A death wish, perhaps. The Tunnel Rats had an unofficial motto: Non Gratum Anus Rodentum . Not worth a rat’s ass. Maybe that was how Horvitz had felt, that his life wasn’t worth living and that going down into the tunnels would be a way of proving it, one way or another.
    The only weapon Horvitz was carrying was a large Bowie knife in a leather sheath which was fixed to the belt in the small of his back. Despite living alone in the forest, Horvitz hadn’t wanted to take a gun or rifle with him when he’d turned his back on society. Marks had once asked him why but Horvitz hadn’t answered, in fact he hadn’t said anything for a few minutes and his eyes had seemed to glaze over. Marks had understood intuitively that Horvitz was afraid that if he had a gun in his hands he’d end up putting the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger and dimming the memories by ending it all.
    Horvitz took him to a secluded clearing where a pot of stew simmered over an open fire. As Horvitz spooned out the food on to enamel plates, Marks raised the subject of Vietnam and whether or not Horvitz had had any thoughts of going back. He had been trying to persuade the vet over several months to take up his offer of a free trip to Vietnam along with other former soldiers. At first Horvitz had rejected the idea out of hand, but during his more recent visits Marks had got the impression that he was gradually coming around to the idea.
    Horvitz wiped his greasy lips with the back of his hand. “Who else will be there?” he asked.
    “Guys like yourself, guys who lost something in Nam. The trip is only for vets, and for their families; you won’t be with any tourists, don’t worry on that score.”
    “And who’ll be taking us around?”
    “We’ll be responsible for you until you get to Bangkok, and then you’ll be taken care of by the Vietnamese government while you’re in Vietnam. They’ll take you around Saigon, up to the Iron Triangle, a full tour. You’ll get to meet former VC, talk with them.”
    Horvitz threw a rabbit bone into the fire and watched it sizzle and crack. “I’m not sure that I want to speak with any VC, Dick. I’m not sure I’ve got anything to say to them.”
    “No one is forcing you to go, Eric. Hell, no one can force you to do anything, you know that. But do you want to spend the rest of your life like this? Living rough?”
    Horvitz shrugged. “I chose it,” he said.
    “Sure, you chose it. But I figure you chose it because you didn’t like the alternative. I figure you’re here because you’re frightened about what might happen if you live among other people. Am I right?”
    Horvitz looked at him with dead eyes, unblinking. “Maybe,” he said.
    “So our programme could maybe help you come to terms with your anger. It might help you lay the ghosts. And you’ll be doing it with others like yourself, guys you can relate to.”
    “You wanna smoke?” Horvitz asked.
    “Sure,” said Marks, somewhat surprised by the abrupt change of subject.
    Horvitz got to his feet in a smooth, flowing motion and walked over to a shelter made from branches and reeds at the edge of the clearing which was so cunningly designed that from fifty feet it was practically invisible. He went inside and came out with a large joint. Marks had no idea how Horvitz managed to grow his own marijuana out in the Canadian wilderness, but he had to admit it was damn good shit. Horvitz lit the reefer with a flaming