Tripp stepped to the doorway of his quarters and flicked the spent cigarette. Unease crept over him. It was quiet. Too damned quiet. A voice said, “Eerie, ain’t it, Cap’n?” Tripp squinted through the dark. “That you, Private Wilson?” “Yah, sir. Good night for them VC vermin to creep up on us.” “We’ve doubled the guards, and the dogs are out. All the same, stay alert, Private.” “Yah, sir, Cap’n.” Even though it was February, the night air was thick with heat that seemed to boil down daily from the sun and swell up from the earth in a shroud of humidity. Sweat moistened Tripp’s face and saturated his underarms. He propped a shoulder against the door frame. His thoughts drifted to the unopened packet that lay on his desk. “Begging your pardon, Cap’n, don’t mean to break any protocol ’tween ranks, but I’m bustin’ at the seams to tell somebody.” “Speak freely, Private Wilson.” “My wife sent me a picture of our new baby boy. Duane Wilson, Jr.
