by Don McQuinn
“Your idea is fine, as far as it goes, but I—we—want Binh. If this is the best you can come up with, we’ll have to brainstorm it some more.” Taylor faced him, his hand tentatively stroking his lips. He almost appeared to be erasing a smile, but the eyes above the hand were appraising.
“Want him what, Colonel?”
“Alive. At all costs.”
“We’ll try to come up with something clever.”
“Do.”
The frigid response was a surprise. Taylor knew he’d been warned. He slurred his departing “Yessir” into one word, easing the door shut behind him.
Winter’s unexpected show of tension disturbed Loc, putting a brusque edge to his own voice when he spoke to Denby. “I must ask you to excuse us. There is something I must discuss with Colonel Winter.”
Denby smiled and nodded his way out, his anger at the ultimatum in Loc’s manner visible in the color of his cheeks.
Once the door was closed, Loc said, “You act as if this Taylor may be able to do something for us.”
“I think his luck is good,” Winter said. “If it is, we may get our chance at Binh. I want him, Loc.”
Loc sighed at the returned intensity, resigning himself to the fact that he had no choice but to get his own problem exposed.
“We need some luck, Win. We may need Binh as much as we want him.”
The larger man herded his coffee cup around on the desk top with an index finger. “I knew damned well you had something on your mind when you came in here. You’ll tell me what it is now, I imagine.”
“Am I so obvious to you?” Loc groaned mock dismay. “I’ve succeeded too well. First comes understanding—soon you’ll aspire to culture. I’ll be responsible for a new race of whites.”
The intercom buzzed before Winter could respond. He flipped the switch and a voice said, “Corporal Ordway, sir?” Winter answered and the voice crackled again. “There’s a Lieutenant Colonel Earl to see the Colonel?”
Winter smiled, listening to the Southern lilt that made a question of statements and the punctilious use of the third person that identified his enlisted Marine. It further amused him that this and other niceties coincided with Taylor’s arrival.
“Have him come up,” Winter said, his smile changing to a grimace as he looked to Loc.
Loc clamped his teeth, aching to tell Winter of the problem facing them and his disgust for the man approaching. First Denby and now this one—it was too much! He lit another cigarette, refilled his tea glass, and was seated again when Earl knocked. He forced himself to respond with civility but pointedly omitted any reference to welcome.
“How are things over at MACV?” Winter asked affably. “Keeping you busy?”
Earl grinned, an expression that suited him. It brought highlights to the electric-blue eyes and the perfect teeth. Blond hair, barely long enough to comb, lay in correct order on a well-shaped head.
“Always busy,” Earl said, and the grin faded to a smaller smile that made him a bit less overpowering. “Sometimes I think we should just take all the paper out of MACV and build a wall with it. We could encase the whole country in a few months. And that’s why I’m here.”
“Because of paperwork?” Winter frowned. “Our required reports have been right on schedule. I checked.”
Earl included both men in a look that said he knew he was being evaded. “Not routine reports. I have to know about operations. I have to make my own report back to the world and we both know your unit’s been sneaking around doing things off the record. And I get it in the ass every time something comes up.”
Winter looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. If these things we’re supposed to be doing are so sneaky, how does anyone know who’s doing it? And why would you be in trouble?”
Some of Earl’s friendliness melted. “We’ve been over this before, sir. When the Senator reads that a black market operator or a drug connection or a VC honcho’s gone down, he wants to know how it happened. When my office can’t tell him, he goes apeshit.”
“We don’t have anything to do with combat operations,” Winter said. “We gather information for others to process. Our sources are very sensitive. The people you want to talk to are in the Phoenix program.”
“The Phoenix office is a short walk from mine, Colonel. I talk to them the way you talk to Colonel Loc. They deny any connection with the murder of those men and we have a ton of reports from your unit concerning each of them, right up until they died.”
“ ‘Until they died.’ ” Winter repeated it softly. “Not ‘until you murdered them?’ And how’d the word murder come up, in the first place?”
Earl set his jaw. “Someone blew one up on a street corner, another one died when a grenade went off in his bedroom, and one disappeared. No one’s ever been arrested.”
Winter made a face. “The VC?”
“When the VC eliminate someone, they publicize it, get all the propaganda from it they can.”
Placing his elbows on the table, Winter balled a fist in the opposite hand. “Now, there’s another interesting semantic exercise. The VC ‘eliminate’ their victims, but if someone nails one of them, that’s murder. Is that one of your unofficial instructions from your Senator? Everyone in Nam knows that sonofabitch has been trying to castrate the Phoenix program since—”
“Because it’s wrong!” Furious, Earl hunched forward in his chair. “They’re no different than the VC! They’re worse! They kill civilians, torture prisoners, anything you can name!”
“As you said, we’ve been over this before. Frankly, I wish you were as anxious to prosecute the war as you are the people fighting it.”
Calming himself, Earl said, “The prosecuting’s being done, Colonel. Other countries have held war crimes trials and convicted the accused. The United States can’t take that kind of international pressure.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in the wrong here. We’re defending a government shot through with corruption—”
Loc interrupted. “Two of the dead men you spoke of were the ultimate in corruption. If we bring them to trial, your newspapers accuse us of rigging the trial. Worse, the criminals take advantage of other corrupt officials and buy their freedom. Is it any wonder honest men break? If those men were murdered, how can you blame the killers?”
Earl shook his head stubbornly. “If you don’t have a decent government, a clean government, then it’s obvious it has to be replaced.”
Rising to his full height, Loc glared at Earl until, as a junior officer, he reluctantly stood. The Vietnamese had to tilt his chin to meet the American’s eyes once Earl was on his feet. If the height disparity bothered the shorter man, he hid the fact. When he spoke his voice crackled with emotion, but it never rose above conversational level.
“You imply that this goodness flows from the north. If it is such a paradise, why do the refugees always run south? If we lose, they will see a functional government, exactly as in a prison. And you will be back in the United States. What a pity we are all evil and there are no Christ-figures among us. You will be cheated of the opportunity to wash your hands of us!”
With a sharp nod for Winter, Loc stalked from the room.
Earl sat back down. “Now I’ll have to apologize. I can’t make him, or you, understand I really care about what happens to these people.”
“That’s not enough.”
Earl threw his hands wide. “Not enough? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying to help!”
“A rationale to gladden the heart of Torquemada. We bring the heathens the true faith and if they don’t accept it, with proper gratitude, why, they deserve to burn. You’re so blinded by your own goodness you can’t find your way into the gutter with those of us fighting this goddam war.”
“That’s the point. If we have to sink to the level of the terrorists, we’ve proven nothing.”
Winter gestured shortly and got to his feet. “I’ve heard all these arguments, yours and mine. They bore me.”
Earl stood up again, features tightly controlled. His breathing was quickened, as after light exercise. “I’m sorry if you find my objections to this war and to murder out of line. Fortunately, the Senator doesn’t. For the past two months my office has been preparing a weekly briefing for him and we’ve been ordered to continue. He’s told the Army he’s working to have the Phoenix program terminated. He’d like to go further and see anyone involved thoroughly investigated.”
Winter opened a desk drawer and withdrew a tattered manila folder. He let it fall to the desk.
“Don’t ever think I take you lightly. Dangerous fools scare me more than clever enemies.” He tapped the folder with a thick finger. “If you ever lose your copy of one of your reports, feel free to borrow mine. Or the official return correspondence from Washington, if you’d like.”
Earl blanched. “You don’t! You can’t! Who—?”
“I have it,” Winter interjected coldly. “You’ve been indiscreet in some of your off-the-record comments, you know. There’re Generals who’d be unhappy over your analysis of their characters, despite your accuracy. But don’t worry about it. I’ll deny I have this trash as long as I can. You follow me?”
“It’s come to this, then? You’d blackmail a fellow officer?”
Winter clapped his hands and laughed. “You’re fucking priceless. You walk in here, accuse me of murder, suggest I’m likely to be tried for it—you’d sell your sister on Tu Do for evidence this unit’s responsible for something illegal—and you’re shocked because I’m blackmailing a ‘fellow officer.’ Go back to your politicians. And don’t give me a reason to step on you.”
Earl moved to the doorway rigidly, his normal erect bearing transformed to stiff geometry. He paused before leaving. “Don’t think I take you lightly either, Colonel. My only questions about you are if you personally had those men killed and how far you’d go to protect yourself. You may be a greater menace than the VC. I intend to be very careful about you.”
The door closed behind him and Winter spun, frowning through the window into the heat at bay outside, his thoughts disorganized as wind-driven sparks. Earl had been an irritant before, a believer in the anti-war point of view, but no less dependable for that. No one else understood what the hell was going on, so why should he? But this was different. Everything was changing. Generals had always scuffled for political influence, but to see a Lieutenant Colonel blatantly allied with a Senator was a new experience. And dangerous. The war had become a power struggle among the ambitious of all political stripes. The killers and the killed were simply statistics to determine the progress and direction of the machine.
Loc knocked softly and admitted himself. “Does he want to make trouble?”
“Beaucoup. We may get political influence, Loc. From our Senate.”
“If it happens, it happens. I think Earl will stumble soon. He runs too fast for his head to keep up.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Loc drew a deep breath and opened the new problem.
“One of our people has broken our trust.” The words came smeared with hurt. “I cannot be certain he has broken our security. He is involved in money exchange, black market, and I suspect drug sales.”
He watched in fascination as the muscles in Winter’s jaws began to pump in and out, in and out, like small bellows.
“You have proof?”
Loc shook his head. “Only a report, so far. I want to discuss it with you.”
“If the report is correct, there is nothing to discuss. The man has become an enemy.”
Contentment quenched some of the heat of anger and apprehension in Loc’s mind. Things were going to proceed in a correct manner. From their first meeting, years ago, they had agreed on how to deal with the enemy. Still, it always chagrined him that this grim moré was the only area where no cultural difference had ever intruded.
“How did the information come to you?” Winter asked. “Are any of our people in danger?”
Loc waved a languid hand, as though dispersing smoke. “I think there’s no danger at present. My concern is for the future.”
Winter nodded, waiting for Loc to continue. It was a long wait and he became uncomfortably aware of the hum of the air-conditioner, nagging at his patience.
At last Loc said, “The young Lieutenant, Le Duc Hon, the one you do not trust, brought me the report.”
“I don’t distrust him. I don’t like him always arguing politics. We’re not a debating team.”
“We’re off the subject.” Loc smiled. “I will start at the beginning. Lieutenant Hon has been keeping me informed, through his CID contacts, concerning the Major at MACV suspected of money manipulation.”
“I know of him.”
“Then you know he hasn’t been caught. He has a way to get money out of country through some neutral source, or some such.” Winter remained mute and Loc continued, “They are certain the Major is the source of funding for a bar on Plantation Road. Lieutenant Hon was privileged to see some pictures taken during surveillance of the Major. He recognized a familiar face in two.”
“One of us?”
"Sergeant Nguyen Van Hai.”
Winter pursed his lips and pinched them between his thumb and knuckle. Dropping the hand, he turned to the window. “What’ve you learned?”
“The details are tedious, Win. Basically, the Major and Sergeant Hai meet. They exchange a few words and part.”
“And?”
“The CID has made no effort to follow Hai. The contacts have been too brief to excite their interest. But Hon was interested. He watched the Sergeant leave the Major and go to a small restaurant. Hon could not go in, but when the Sergeant came out, he carried a package. Hon followed him to the vicinity of the vice area of Plantation Road and lost him. We also have learned that Sergeant Hai’s brother recently bought property and two fishing boats in Da Nang. A few months ago he was a poor fisherman.”
“What do you want to do next?”
“The man who manages the bar on Plantation Road has an office above the place. There are two doors, one onto the hall leading to the bar, another leading to stairs outside. Late tonight some Vietnamese civilians will ask the manager questions. He will answer reluctantly at first, but with greater enthusiasm as time passes.”
Winter made a face. “For a man who prides himself on subtlety, you have a knack for the direct approach.”
The ghost-smile flicked on and off as Loc bowed.
Winter said, “Is there any chance the manager will complain about this interview?”
“No,” Loc said thoughtfully. “The men will advise against that. He will understand.”
“Do we have any idea who these men might be?”
Loc turned his palms up. “Who can say what men prowl such a disgraceful place at night? In my mind, I could envision two who resembled Sergeant Le Minh Chi and Lieutenant Colonel Tho.”
Winter whistled. “You’re really pulling the plug, aren’t you?” He sat behind the desk again. “Tho and Chi? You’re sure the manager’ll survive the discussion?”
“It’s necessary. We may want to talk to him again. And now I go to discuss matters with Tho.”
“OK. I have to sign off on some papers. You want to sit in on Duc and Taylor’s rough op plan when it’s done?”
Loc tugged an ear, thinking, then, “Yes, I would. I’m curious about Taylor. I want to know why you have such high hopes for him. He has not impressed me yet.”
“I’ll call you.”
Loc waved, a graceful, almost feminine gesture, and left.
Chapter 6
The last efforts of the sinking sun were turning the clouds to molten copper as Taylor settled into the back seat of the tiny Renault. Like all the other Bluebird taxis, it was battered and weary, floor scarred by innumerable cigarette butts, upholstery threadbare. The interior had the gentle greasy feel of a properly oiled weapon. Unfortunately, in this case it was an accumulation of grime. The trick to riding a Bluebird and emergi
ng in reasonable condition was to touch as little as possible. It wasn’t accomplished often, because the average American found his head jammed against the ceiling, his knees against the front seat, and his body jerked about unpredictably in the maelstrom of Saigon traffic.
The driver turned a wary face to his passenger.
“BEQ One,” Taylor said.
“One hundred P.” The voice was demanding.
Taylor answered wearily, “Aw, bullshit. Forty P, or I take other taxi.”
The driver was adamant. “BEQ One one hundred P. All taxi same-same.”
Every night the same thing, Taylor thought. We both know it’s a twenty P ride for a Vietnamese and a fifty P ride for an American and we always have to start at a hundred and haggle. He stripped fifty piasters from his wallet and extended them to the driver. Muttering, the man grabbed the money and shoved it in his pocket, simultaneously lurching into the traffic on Cach Mang. He whipped into an immediate U-turn. Motorcycles and motorbikes shoaled gracefully past and a huge six-by trumpeted as it dodged clumsily to avoid them.
The quitting-time crush from MACV and Tan Son Nhut reminded Taylor of the Mixing Bowl at the D.C.-Springfield interchange on an August evening. The scale was smaller, but the performance made up in lunacy what it lacked in size. No one kept to prescribed lanes, smaller vehicles crowded in between larger ones, engines and tempers overheated in tandem, and the lightning of multilingual cursing arced through the smother of exhaust. Buses and trucks roamed with the arrogance of small-town bullies. Smaller cars and motorcycles got out of the way or were shoved aside.
At his first exposure, Taylor marveled that no one did anything about it. Since then, he’d decided the larger miracle was that there was no shooting.
The driver executed a suicidal left across traffic onto Truong Minh Giang and picked up some speed. The faint, humid breeze, stirred by their progress, was a blessing, cooling the civilian shirt that already clasped Taylor like damp plastic. He perked up, observing his surroundings instead of anticipating a crash.
The market on the near bank of the Rach Thi Nghe was always active. The creek itself, noisome as the pits of hell, glistened like rancid chocolate. In the shade of the bridge it was black. Shacks made of any material imaginable backed away from the paralleling streets and crowded into the space above the water, some precarious, on thin, awkward pilings made of debranched saplings. He always wondered what really held it all up.
