by Don McQuinn
Out on the street a car horn hooted derisive agreement.
“I run the American half of a joint unit.” He straightened in the chair, apparently resolved to give Taylor a deeper view. “My counterpart is Colonel Do Van Loc. We go back a long way. I’ve got more time in this country than any American I’m aware of. I won’t tell you how long it took to get our unit—the Records Research Unit—established. I certainly won’t tell you how many asses we had to kiss.”
His right hand moved almost involuntarily, as though turning off someone else’s conversation. When he continued he was less contemplative.
“We’re a small group—twelve Americans, including clerks and drivers. Viet counterparts are another ten men, officers and enlisted. We’ve existed a little over a year. If you come in, you’ll indeed be busting your ass filling out cards. And computer cards. And charts and graphs. The paperwork justifies our existence and you’ll know every scrap of it before you’re operational. We’ve tried our wings on a few jobs and been successful. We’ve worked too long and too hard to let anyone screw up what we’ve accomplished.”
He stopped for another drink.
“What I’m telling you is that I hold power, Major. Tons of it. I’ve worked like a sonofabitch for it and I intend to keep it and use it. If you come in, I’ll want you to learn this city—the alleys, the markets, the neighborhoods. When something starts to boil, I’ll expect you to be able to find out who built the fire and what’s in the pot.”
“You must have access to a million sources. You want me to act as some sort of coordinator?”
“Initially. You’ll set up your own contacts, as possible. Counterpart people will help. Later, when you know your way around, you’ll exploit your own contacts.”
Taylor squinted dubiously. “I’ll have to learn the language. I don’t want to deal with people who can talk around me.”
“I’ve considered that. Your bio says you speak, read, and write Cantonese.”
“Not much anymore. I was told not to—the bio should have said that, too.”
“It did, and it still holds. Stay away from it. The bio goes on to say you have what amounts to a genius for language assimilation. We’ll provide you with an excellent teacher. Understand, I expect—no, I will have—very fast results. If you think a long-haired dictionary will help, feel free, but let me know first, so we can run a check on her.”
Taylor had to grin. Shacking up had come up in the past, but always behind a thicket of euphemisms and official disavowals.
Winter caught his expression and grunted. “Goddam Marine. I knew that’d catch your attention.”
“Everybody should have a hobby,” Taylor said. “Listen, if I find two of those dictionaries, do I have to turn one in?”
Shaking his head, Winter said, “Be serious, goddamit. You’re being recruited. Show a little respect.” He let the moment pass, then continued seriously.
“Your language instructor will be a woman, the widow of a Vietnamese officer. She lives with her mother and father. He’s a wheel in government—used to be a big businessman. The mother’s from down in the delta. Her family rents out a lot of land down there.”
“The family knows about the unit?”
“Christ, no. See that you keep it that way. We’ve run several people through her classes and you better not be the first to make a mistake.”
“You’re running along like I was already aboard. Am I allowed to ask what our primary mission is?”
Winter hoped Taylor couldn’t see his pleasure at the word “our.” He studied Taylor before answering, establishing exactly what he wanted to say.
“We’re on both sides of the street. We’re targeted against certain VC activities, but sometimes we slop over into other areas. Colonel Loc answers to one man, me to another. We get approval, or at least tacit approval, for operations from them. They’re very understanding.”
“You make it sound pretty spooky, Colonel.”
“It is. It’s a rotten job in the middle of a rotten war. You come aboard, you’ll find out.”
The studied dramatic pause that followed amused and aggravated Taylor. Eyes locked to Winter’s, he waited.
“Think you can handle it?”
What the hell, Taylor thought, Change One. Just like a damned dog. Ol’ Master kicks you dizzy, but let him break out the gun and boots and you jump through your ass to fetch his fucking birds.
“Deal me in.”
“Fine.” He clapped his hands together, turning to Harker. “It’s already past curfew. Get him back to the Annex. Pick him up at 0630, get his ID card, PX ration card, and all that crap out of the way. Get him a driver’s license. Collect his gear and move him into the villa.”
The word “villa” rang in Taylor’s mind. He decided against asking questions.
Harker stood up to leave and Taylor drained his glass and joined him. Winter continued to stare at his table top. Taylor wondered if they were expected to go or stay. As he was about to ask, Winter looked up.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe I ought to explain something to you.” He paused again, clearly organizing his words. “Not everything we do is what you’d call sanctioned, Major. You’ll be forced to face up to some very harsh realities. Maybe you’d best sleep on this.”
“I think I know what the Colonel’s driving at. I said I was in, and I’m in.” Taylor smiled easily.
“No, that won’t cut it.” Winter pressed forward heavily, hands splayed out across his kneecaps. “You’ll know what I’m driving at. I’m telling you you could be called on to kill.”
Taylor’s sharp laugh surprised Winter.
“Colonel, what the hell else could you have been getting at? I’ve got no family to speak of and I took my finger off my number on the lineal list years ago. I won’t have any second thoughts.”
“If you’re going to, now’s the time,” Winter said. “I don’t want to hear about it when it’s time to squeeze the trigger. It happens, you know.”
“Not to me,” Taylor answered flatly.
Winter stood up. “Glad to have you aboard.” He shook Taylor’s hand and as he did, Harker opened the door, turned, and saluted. Winter returned it with a half-smile as they left.
He stood that way for a few moments, then walked slowly back to his desk and got comfortable in the chair, sipping at the icewater remains of his drink and nibbling absently at twisted white strands of squid. He reached for the bottle to pour more whiskey, looked at the level, and replaced the cork.
Damn a war that runs on a one-year cycle, he thought. It may be that long before he gets something rolling and then I’ll have to bring along a new man. He’s professional—that may help. God knows he’s cold enough.
He looked at the bottle again and pulled the cork, pouring a bare finger in the glass. Holding it to the light, he rotated it slowly back and forth, watching crystalline sparks spring from the ice chips.
He’ll work out, he decided.
He tossed down the drink, draining ice and all.
“Just fine,” he said to the empty room. “Poor bastard.”
Chapter 4
Once the jeep was clear of the BOQ parking lot, Harker turned to Taylor. “What’re they saying about the war back home, sir?”
As soon as he’d asked, he aimed his attention back to the nearly deserted street. The fumbled attempt at unconcern almost forced a laugh from Taylor.
“In terms of popularity, it’s somewhere below syphilis. No one seems to understand it. It’s killing our people and hardly anyone’s willing, or able, to believe it’s worthwhile.”
“What’s the attitude toward the guys who ran off to Canada or Sweden? What do people say about them?”
This time Taylor did laugh. “Anything you want to hear. They’re the greatest propaganda goldmine the doves could hope for. Then the hawks are busy proving they’re all born losers, anyhow. They’re heroes or bastards. Depends on who’s talking.”
“You’re a professional, Majo
r—what do you think?”
“Me?” Taylor was surprised. “I don’t think about them much at all.”
He caught the unguarded glance of disapproval and added, “Don’t misunderstand. I didn’t say I didn’t care. I don’t worry about what anyone does as long as it doesn’t affect me, and those people don’t. For that matter, I keep thinking how our country was founded by people who were considered deserters, protesters, and so on. We see them as men of immense vision. The Indians saw them as the most rapacious sons of bitches outside hell’s front gate. No, let ‘em go, and Godspeed, says I.”
“You think they ought to get amnesty when this is all over?” Harker was rigidly deferential.
Taylor was silent for a moment while he phrased his answer. “Personally, no. Not out of vindictiveness—or justice, for that matter. I just feel I could never trust one of them, you know? Right or wrong, I’d always believe that when the heat came on, he’d find a reason to skip. Anyhow, what I think doesn’t matter. They’ll likely get their amnesty. It’s the time of the anti-hero and us reactionaries might as well learn to love it.”
Harker was frowning steadily now. “You don’t seem too enthusiastic for a man who was willing to come back here for a second tour, sir.”
“Enthusiasm?” Taylor said it musingly. “I guess it’s nice, if you need it. I’m a professional. I also believe I’m in the right. If you expect a cheerleader, you’re in for a disappointment. I’ve looked at the information available to me and decided what I think is right and what’s wrong. If that means I have to fight, that’s that. And thus endeth the lecture. What’s this mess in front of us?”
The road was blocked by wooden barriers, bright lights behind them, barbed wire in front. The glare obscured vision beyond, although a massive object hulking in the road was barely discernible.
“This is the MACV-Tan Son Nhut checkpoint. We have to snake around through it.” Harker slewed the jeep to the left, where Vietnamese and American MPs checked ID cards. The Vietnamese watched the process with idle curiosity, smaller replicas of the Americans, except for the letters QC replacing MP. One of the Americans said something about curfew and Harker displayed another small card. The MP read it and waved them on.
“After-curfew pass,” Harker explained. The headlights exposed the thing Taylor had dimly perceived blocking the road. It was a six-by, the standard two-and-a-half-ton truck. The jeep barely passed between it and the ditch.
“This whole works is a left-over from Tet,” Harker explained, once more. Taylor was beginning to feel very ignorant.
“That’s one I’m glad I missed,” he said, wishing he could simply ride and look.
“It was a bitch,” Harker said, squashing the hope. “I couldn’t get into MACV for three days and I was two more getting back out.”
“You were here then?”
“Yes, sir. I’m finishing my first one year extension. I’ve been approved for another one.”
“Jesus, no wonder you’re asking about attitudes back home. You’ll have to apply for immigrant papers.”
In the dim light spilling from the MACV headquarters compound, Taylor saw pride in Harker’s eyes.
“A lot of people think I’m a nut, but I’m putting away some money. Besides, it’s an interesting life. I’ve even made a few decisions. Like you.”
“Winter was right about you,” Taylor said. “You’re a brash young man, putting down your elders.”
Harker grinned as they slowed, passing the Rainbow Room, now dark and deserted.
Taylor asked, “Will I be having one of those counterparts Winter mentioned?”
Harker chuckled. “I’ve been thinking about that. You’ll be working with Major Duc. Nguyen Ngoc Duc. He’s barely five feet tall and built like a beach ball, but don’t let that fool you. He’s got the stamina of a truck.”
“Swell,” Taylor said dryly. “Seventeen years building dignity and prestige so I can be half of a Mutt and Jeff act. How about you? Who’s your counterpart and what’s your job?”
“His name’s Le Duc Hon. He’s a Lieutenant. Most of our operations are with SOG—that’s Special Operations Group. We like it ‘cause it gets us out in the field a lot.”
Taylor grunted his disgust. “You say nothing very nicely.”
The answering low laugh blended with the crunch of gravel on the road shoulder as they came to a stop outside Taylor’s barracks.
“I’m glad you’re with us, Major.”
Taylor lit another cigarette, knowing he was smoking far more than usual. He traced it to an insistent sensation he’d committed himself to something he couldn’t escape. In the glare of the flame, Harker’s face was taut in study of his passenger. Taylor let him stare, watching the smoke spiral to the roof of the jeep. It coiled there, hesitant tendrils doubling back on themselves.
The hell with you. The hell with any more explanations and reasons. I don’t owe you. Stay out of my brain.
“Glad to be aboard. See you in the morning.” He heaved himself out. Harker’s hand flashed in the dark and Taylor returned the half-seen salute.
The growl of the departing jeep faded as he entered the building. Even before he opened the screen door its occupancy laved over him. Someone muttered unintelligibly, muted as though in conscious consideration for the rest of the inhabitants so neatly arranged along both walls. The light from the head at the end of the long room provided ample illumination and he was spared having to pick his way in complete darkness. The heavy breathing of the massed bodies created an irregular, solid welling of sound, a constant asthmatic exhalation. He considered the odor of damp cloth, sweat, and a hothouse thickness of toiletries and decided it smelled like a flower show in a locker room.
The ceiling fans paddled through the cloyed air, whispering and snickering, one to the other. As he settled himself on the bunk someone down the line rolled over with a loud sigh and began a racking snore.
“Beautiful,” he muttered softly. “Saved it just for me.” He stubbed the cigarette.
After folding his blanket toward the foot of the bed he hung his clothes in the wall locker. Hangers clattered, but no one stirred. Finally he stretched out on the marvelously cool sheet. When his head hit the pillow the stuffing flowed outwards like liquid. Swearing, he transferred the blanket to the head, put the pillow on that, and lay back down. This time the sheet was warm and he was already slick with a damp film of perspiration.
He stared at the fan, listening to a chopper chuffing importantly overhead. Before it was out of earshot, he heard a distant burst of automatic weapons fire. A lull of a few seconds and then another, shorter burst stuttered. The sound pleased him. It was reality.
His last thought as he closed his eyes was a formless pity for the snorer down the way who continued to rumble, unenlightened.
Chapter 5
Colonel Do Van Loc delicately flicked his lips with the napkin and snapped his fingers. The orderly poised in the hall trotted in silently, removed the lacquered tray from the desk and trotted back out. Loc smiled at the soldier’s back and permitted himself a flourish as he lit his after-breakfast cigarette.
Breakfast was always a pleasure, an unfailing routine that started his day. A bowl of the rich beef broth, pho, a croissant, and coffee—Vietnamese, French, and American influences, all in one sitting. It gave him a sense of history, of the progress of things. More, it was cosmopolitan.
The facet of this particular morning that glittered most attractively, however, was his monumental self-control. He exhaled smoothly, congratulating himself on completely hiding a fury that actually caused physical pain.
Loc equably reflected that today was the first time in years he wished he could kill a man. The matter of arranging the death was a simple matter and it would provide some pleasure. Still, it would be meager compensation for the insult to the Unit.
His lip curled, unbidden, as he thought of his counterpart, Winter. Setting his mask, he snapped his fingers once more. The orderly entered with a quilted tea cad
dy, placed it on the desk, and left.
Winter would be equally angry, and Loc hoped he’d conduct himself well, because the American’s unrestrained emotions frequently taxed Loc’s admiration, if not his friendship. They had discussed this failing and now it was almost as painful to watch Winter try to control himself as to be exposed to the raving.
Lighting a cigarette from the previous one, Loc poured a glass of tea and stood, facing up to the inevitable. Carrying tea and cigarette, he opened the door to the adjacent office.
“Good morning, Win,” he said, buoyed by the sound of his own precise English. “Do you have a minute?”
Winter answered in Vietnamese, gesturing toward the sofa against the far wall. “Chac vay, Anh Hai.” His general tone and the use of Anh Hai, meaning Brother Two, assured Loc he was relaxed and untroubled. Further, Loc allowed himself to hope that the language would put Winter in a Vietnamese frame of mind.
“You have a spot on your blouse,” Winter added.
“You lie,” Loc replied easily. He sipped his tea, not deigning to look. Among a people who considered neatness and cleanliness primary virtues, Loc’s fastidiousness was remarkable.
Winter examined him as he settled onto the sofa, smiling with reminiscence. When they’d both been Majors in the field, grimy as pigs in a pit, Loc would manage to bathe, produce a clean uniform from somewhere, and be ready for inspection before anyone else had caught his breath. He was tall for a Vietnamese, a shade over 5’9", and Winter suspected his elegance reflected an awareness that he stood out in a crowd.
He’s aged well, Winter went on mentally. The face has grown a little sharper. It’s tight-skinned and there’s bitterness now. The eyes a bit quicker, not as open. It could be a fanatic’s face quickly.
The last was a disturbing notion and he was glad to have it interrupted. Loc put his tea glass on the coffee table, asking, “Your evening went well?”
