Carefully he removed the thick chipboard base wrapped in army-blue velvet to which the NVA bayonet and its metal sheath were attached. He flipped the board, painstakingly untwisted the three bright copper wires holding the knife, slipped the wires from the tiny holes drilled in the muzzle clamp and the edge of the blade, bent back the third from the muzzle ring. The bayonet was free, lying across his hands. In his hand it felt vile, wicked. He smiled, chuckled. He grasped the hilt with his right hand. The space between muzzle ring and clamp was exactly the width of his closed palm. He squeezed, rotated his wrist, turning the blade, swishing it, getting the heft and balance. The weapon was longer than he’d realized. He measured it: slightly more than 12 inches overall; the blade alone nearl
