Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  “He wasn’t hurt at all, then?” Harker sounded vaguely disappointed and Taylor flicked a quick glance at him before looking to Duc for an answer.

  “Not much. He not even have time swallow much water. You should see face while old man, me bargain how much he worth! He beaucoup believe I let old man throw him back if not get good price.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Harker said. “Would’ve softened him up for Tho.”

  Taylor said, “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s feeling especially bloody-minded today. The pressure of his impending promotion to Captain, no doubt.” He pushed for a light sound, a failure emphasized by Harker’s bleak answering smile.

  "He only a scared boy,” Duc said. “Better I look away, make like not know them. Maybe Trung tell himself he make mistake.”

  “The kid’s a fucking courier,” Harker said. “If he doesn’t know anything else, he knows where he picks up his shit and where he takes it.”

  “Useless already,” Taylor said, making no more effort to sound light. “They know Duc grabbed one link in the chain. They’ve already repaired it with another.”

  “Then Tho’ll find out what else he knows. Who recruited him, who else he knows, what he’s been carrying. He’ll know something we can use.”

  “And if that’s all he knows, how do you make Tho stop asking questions?” Taylor retorted, and Duc was pleased to see Harker check, then was disappointed again at his answer.

  “Why should he stop? The kid’s VC. He knows the rules.”

  “Or the lack thereof.” Taylor spoke softly and turned away.

  Harker pursued him with his eyes. “All right, then, or the lack thereof. Whose fault is that? You know fucking well they’d do the same to us.”

  “And you know better than that. ‘They do it’ is no excuse.”

  Standing up, Harker said, “No, I don’t know better. Ever since I got here I’ve been hearing people tell me anything Charlie does is OK because he’s fighting for a cause. I’ve got one too, goddamit! If we lose here, they’ll throw people like Duc in the slammer and make him eat the key. What do you think would happen to Ly if you had to leave her here and we lost?”

  Duc would have sworn the last word was still unspoken before Taylor moved, and yet he heard it choke and somehow Taylor was holding Harker’s blouse bunched in the right hand and the left was touching the handle of the .38 on the desk. The sight of the older man’s fingers receding from it filled him with a relief that made his bowels feel watery.

  Instead of speaking, Taylor swallowed, made a noise like an old woman scolding, and let go of the wad of material in his hand. He made a tentative move at straightening the jacket and stopped short, turning the movement into an awkward wave. Then he was out the door.

  Duc sat heavily. He spoke in Vietnamese, too tired to even think in English. “You make life very difficult for us, you know? You worry about causes and the morality of nations and things you cannot define, like good and bad. We want peace and we want to live to enjoy it.”

  Color still simmered in Harker’s cheeks. “You could get that by surrendering,” he said, looking at the empty door. He used English and Duc was sorely tempted to make an issue of such inconsideration. He sighed, deciding the man probably had no idea how he was behaving. He kept to English himself, frowning with the effort.

  “No. You right about what happen me if lose. Happen my children, too. That not live enjoy peace. But you have peace your country and I think you little enjoy.”

  The bitter anger suddenly washed from Harker’s manner and for a moment Duc had the sensation he was looking at a man shedding time. The eyes were those he’d learned to associate with Harker, full of a yearning to understand. In his own mind, Duc had always pictured him as the typical American, a puzzle of complexity and complication, but a man who wanted the best for everyone. The change in the face made him aware how much he missed the other man. At the same time, the new look returned.

  “Don’t worry about what’s going on back in the States now,” he said. “We’ll outlast those assholes. They’ve got a lot of support now, but they’re still a minority. No matter how much noise they make, it’s all they’re good for. They sure as hell won’t fight. Not unless maybe Canada disappears and they’re cornered. They’ll parade around and throw shit at cops and fuck each other in the parks, but the first time somebody says they have to fight for their so-called ideals—I mean fight someone who’s allowed to blow their fucking heads off—they’ll fold. And then we can take care of business.”

  “And who wants fight them?”

  “Nobody. Not yet.” Harker moved to the door, shaking off the question. “I’ve got to go find the Major,” he said over his shoulder. “I acted crazy, talking to him that way. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him, will you, sir?”

  Duc stared at the wall.

  It was all so confusing. Such a big country, so powerful, so much dissension. Not a paper tiger. No, absolutely not. A drunken tiger, its thoughts twisted and its limbs uncoordinated, but lethal, nevertheless.

  He shivered and bent his mind to thinking of dinner and what the children would be telling him about their day. Again, the juxtaposition of his eldest and the youth on the motorcycle crowded his vision and he considered thinking about it but warned himself off. He got up to change into his uniform and thought, instead, of the evening ahead.

  He was lacing his boots when the intercom rasped and he winced, thinking how the sound was at its worst at this time of day. He answered and when Loc ordered him up to the office he looked at his watch and groaned. In fifteen minutes he would have been gone.

  The sense of cosmic injustice soared as he entered Loc’s office. A first view showed not only Loc and Winter, but on their respective flanks, Tho and Denby. He braced himself for what Taylor sometimes called a planet-sized ass chewing. Then he saw the trio sitting prim in their straightbacked chairs against the wall between Loc’s office and Winter’s. The young man was the one he’d arrested, now dressed in prisoner’s shorts and shirt. The frightened eyes sought his, desperate for any familiar contact.

  The woman was older, probably in her early thirties. She wore a threadbare ao dai and met Duc’s eyes with calm dignity. He was unaccountably pleased to see what he thought was defiant pride breaking that surface, like the swift glint of sunlight on rippled water. A child, perhaps four years old, sat in the woman’s lap. She was the image of the older woman, staring at Duc with sober calculation.

  Anticipation grabbed at his stomach and he faced Loc with his breath locked in his throat.

  Loc smiled at him. “Major Duc, I would like to introduce Nguyen Thi Hoa and her daughter, Nguyen Thi Cuc, the family of Nguyen Binh.”

  Chapter 37

  The colors of the embroidered mandarin sleeve altered subtly in the changing light intensity Denby created by trailing his hand across the protective glass. He wished he could actually feel the silk without soiling it, then changed his mind, knowing the sensuousness of his imagination was superior to any reality. The truth could never send hues bursting through his fingertips. It was best to leave the material in its frame.

  Sitting at his desk, he looked at the mating elephants and found it possible to smile at them, thinking there should be a simile there, a rationale between the massive coupling and patience. Nothing came of it, but he didn’t care. He swung the chair in a lazy, repetitious half-circle, looking at the walls but not seeing them, thinking of the reprieve just handed him.

  A sense of gratitude toward Duc touched off sympathetic chords of surprise and warmth. He told himself there was no harm in appreciating a successful job. Objective appreciation—that was the trick in getting along with the gooks—accept what few things they did well, try not to go crazy over the fucking mess they made of everything else, and keep away from them as much as possible.

  He frowned and stopped the chair. Winter would have to insist that the American side take charge of the bitch and the child.

  His hand moved to tug
at an ear lobe. Still, speed was going to be important now. The quicker she spilled her guts, the better. She knew where her husband was and once he was caught the bullshit about other investigations would be forgotten and he could pack his bags and get out. Too bad for her. The way to get the truth quickly would be to give her to Tho. Winter would have to let go of her.

  He scuffled for a pad and pen and started compiling a list of arguments for making the interrogation exclusively a South Vietnamese responsibility.

  In an hour he was done and sat back to admire what was now a dual list, points for and points against. All favorable arguments were well phrased. The important thing would be to make Winter think he was doing Loc a favor by dumping the woman on him.

  The knock on the door broke his concentration and he answered harshly.

  Miller marched in and said, “I just heard the Old Man’s got Binh’s wife and kid.”

  A whining floor polisher in the hallway seemed to underscore the words. The machine continued to complain through the door after he closed it. The spice smell of the wax remained.

  Denby grinned. “How about that? As soon as she opens up, life’ll be worth living around here again.”

  Miller was unimpressed. “I’m thinking about our operation, sir. If you get the plan to him now, he’s sure to go along with it. Later, if she comes up with Binh, he might not want to push our show.”

  A first impulse died in Denby’s mouth as he considered the ramifications. He reminded himself that Miller was a fanatic, absolutely out of control on the subject of his damned drugs. This intensity could only mean he felt there was a definite drug presence. And there was no way in hell there was going to be any drug investigation. Not now, not when any need for risk had been eliminated.

  He pursed his lips, rolling the words through his mind before speaking. “We’re going to have to be patient, Willy. This development is the biggest thing to happen here during my tour. God knows how long it’ll take to break the woman, but I’ll do everything I can to get our op plan approved as soon as possible. I know how much it means to you.”

  Miller said, “Colonel, we’re getting short. Hell, everybody’s short, you, me, Harker, Major Taylor. He’s got more time than any of us and he’s short. If we don’t get something set up quick, it’ll be too late. I been thinking. What if I told the Old Man I want to extend to work on it?”

  Before he could control it, a wince jerked Denby’s features. He gave it full play, turning it into a grimace of concerned disagreement. “I don’t think I’d do that just yet,” he said, spooning out caution. “He’s excited now, and we shouldn’t bother him. But you’re right, time’s short. I’ll get a definite program going in the next day or two. Don’t worry about it.”

  Recognizing dismissal, Miller opened the door and closed it against the keening waxer before giving Denby a parting shot.

  “I hope you get to him soon, Colonel. I’ve done my whole tour without complaining and I’ve got a free bitch coming. No disrespect, sir, but if he don’t give us a go-ahead soon, damned if I won’t tell him what I think.”

  Denby winked conspiratorially as the door closed on the hard black features and then spun his chair to face the opposite wall and cursed. When he was ready to think again, he lectured himself sternly about excesses. Calmly, he established his principles—neither Miller or Winter must ever learn the investigation op plan was no more than standard format and rough notes in a manila folder. Second, Miller must be prevented from presenting his case to Winter. Lastly, Miller must not be allowed to initiate any action on his own.

  He examined the situation, coolly at first, seeing it as exasperating but not particularly threatening. Slowly, however, wisps of apprehension smoked into his thoughts. Why had Miller been so quiet for so long and only now made a threat? And what of Winter’s patience? It had been—what, weeks?—with no positive action taken on the investigation. It wasn’t like Winter to allow a stall.

  Loc.

  Loc and Winter.

  Facial muscles tightened under fat, giving him a bunched look and he sat up in his chair, alert now, physically and mentally tense.

  If Loc and Winter had something going, they might want to keep Miller out of it, either to protect him or because they had something terminal planned for someone and didn’t want Miller too close to the action. If that were the case, Winter wouldn’t care if his own people never put together an op plan.

  That could be it.

  Shit, it could be worse. What if Winter was using the phony op plan idea as a set-up, deliberately intending to watch him fail?

  Why would any of this happen? Was he borrowing trouble?

  He reviewed the start of the whole problem, the news the Major’s joint was completely crooked. Now that he thought about it, Winter took that with unusual calm. He was more inclined to shout and roar and so forth. The quiet one was Loc. And what had he done? Shipped the Viet Sergeant who’d gotten his nose into the trough out, into combat, the next day.

  He was on his feet without conscious effort, out the door, and standing in front of Winter’s office. A spasm wrenched his chest when he realized he’d already knocked, Winter had said “Come!” and he had no idea what he was going to say. He tried to deny the fear—no, the panic—that had gotten him this far, but it twisted in his guts again and he opened the door with gritting teeth, determined to make it work for him.

  “Carl. What can I do for you?” Affable Winter. Cheerful Winter. Back-stabbing sonofabitch.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the investigation on our Major, Colonel.” He stepped up to the desk, wondering if Loc had the room bugged, afraid of being overheard, afraid of Winter correctly interpreting his actions.

  “I’ve worked very closely with Sergeant Miller on this thing. After all, he’s the one who’ll be under the gun, and it occurred to me he’s pretty short. What can we do about someone to fill in behind him, sort of a replacement?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that.” Winter continued to smile. “The important thing is to get the operation underway.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  Winter continued smiling, continued talking. It was as if no one else was in the room. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Miller hasn’t tied in with our counterparts and done a little advance work on his own. I think he’ll extend if we get something good going.” Suddenly he was laughing, the loudness of it startling. “Poor Miller! He’s as crazy as I am. He’ll do what he thinks he has to and spend half his time in regret. Haven’t you seen him sulking around here? He’s already pissed off because we haven’t turned him loose.”

  Denby nodded. “He’s a hard-charger. We’ll have him working to his heart’s content pretty soon.”

  Winter’s smile moved. “I hope so, Carl. I’ve been doing a lot of feeling sorry for myself and I let this thing hang fire. I’m ashamed of myself for that. Binh’s wife may be able to lead us to her husband now. If she can, and we catch him, the scramble in their entire logistic set-up’ll look like a four alarm fire in a cat house. If Miller’s properly in place, we’ll get that fucking Major and everyone around him. I wouldn’t want to see us blow that.”

  “No way!” Denby punched at his glasses. “I’ll have the plan ready to go—”

  Once more, Winter simply raised his voice and talked over him. “By Friday, Carl. Friday this week. The target leaves here in three weeks, but I’m sure you have those details memorized. I’m not sure we have time to send him home in custody, but I’ve got time to send him home in a box, if it seems appropriate. I want that plan and I want it to work. We understand each other?”

  “As usual, Colonel. I’ll have it on your desk by Friday. And maybe a pleasant surprise, as well.”

  Winter said, “I’ll settle for a good op plan, Carl.” He lowered his gaze to the papers on his desk and Denby backed outside.

  In the safety of his own office he lowered himself gingerly into his chair as if afraid of breaking something. Dull eyes fixed on the wall and he stared, the on
ly movement of his body an irregular blink.

  Stupid, egotistical, murderous sonofabitch! You drop the fucking ball and now you threaten to put my ass in a sling for it! “Do we understand each other!” Shit! You knew I didn’t have a plan, knew it all along. And you know something about Miller you’re not telling me. Double-dealing prick.

  His brain shoved the message through that he was staring at the elephants again. A hand flew at them to sweep them from the desk. At the last instant the thick fingers closed, scooping the carving into the air rather than smashing it. He held it while he was uncomfortably extended across the desk with his arm stretched out in front of him and forced himself to remain in that position until the arm was trembling but his breath was steady and regular. He replaced the figurine and sat back.

  I’ll beat you at your own game, Winter. I ought to let you have the Major killed and then blow the fucking whistle on you, but I’d have to answer too many questions about this past year. I’m going to make you write me a perfect efficiency report. You’re not going to threaten me with your idiot Sergeant, either. Whatever you’ve got going, I’m going to pull the fucking rug right from under you and make you love it.

  He closed his eyes and levered the chair back, willing relaxation. The thickened face eased, flowed to a soft mass. The lower lip drooped, damply pink. The features canceled each other out. The face grew unreadable. It was a facsimile.

  * * *

  Miller hiked past the small shops, unaware of the occasional beckoning hand or calling voice. He would have been uncaring had he noticed them. His mind raced, even as his feet moved him through the crowd, shifting, pausing, rushing ahead when the opportunity arose. Once off Tu Do, he could move more easily, but he slowed, not wanting to appear anxious.

  Mantell was at his usual table and Miller recognized him even while his eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. He got a perfunctory greeting and no invitation to sit. He pulled a chair out and made himself comfortable.