The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I’ve booked the rooms for three days,’ said Doc. ‘I expect to be back here tomorrow, so if everything goes smoothly we can have a couple of days R and R.’

  ‘If,’ said Hammack. ‘That’s a big if, Doc.’

  ‘We go down, we check it’s still there, and we come back.’

  ‘And if he’s not there?’ said Hammack. ‘If he’s not dead?’

  ‘Then I’ll eat my fucking hat, Bernie.’

  ‘That’s not what we should be worrying about,’ said Ramirez. ‘If he’s not dead, if he is the killer, then it’s going to be easy enough to protect ourselves. But if it’s not him, then we have a big, big problem. Who killed Eric, Max and Dennis?’

  ‘Dennis was an accident,’ said Doc.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hammack. ‘But the point is, someone knows what we did. And someone wants to make us pay.’

  ‘Whatever, we take this one step at a time. And step one is to get ourselves equipped. There’s a market not far away where we can get everything we need.’ He took a sheet of paper from the pocket of his denim shirt and dropped it on the table in front of Ramirez and Hammack. ‘I’ve drawn up a list of what I think we’ll need. Can you see anything I’ve missed?’

  Ramirez ran his finger down the list. ‘A double-action Smith & Wesson .44 magnum would be nice,’ he said.

  Doc smiled thinly. ‘Much as I’d like to oblige, short of stealing one, we’re not going to get a gun.’

  ‘String,’ said Hammack. ‘You forgot the string. And rope.’

  Doc took a pen out of his pocket and added string and rope to the list.

  ‘How are we getting up to the tunnels?’ asked Ramirez.

  ‘Bikes,’ said Doc. He smiled when he saw the look of disbelief on Ramirez’s face. ‘Motorbikes,’ he clarified. ‘Foreigners can’t hire cars without a local driver, but we can rent motorbikes. I asked reception and there’s a place around the corner that can help us.’

  The three Americans went down together in the lift and walked through the marble-floored foyer where a group of Taiwanese tourists were checking in. There was a line of white Toyota taxis outside the hotel and they climbed into the first one. Doc told the driver where they wanted to go and he smiled and flicked on the meter. It was, thought Doc, a pleasant change from Bangkok where more often than not getting into a taxi meant several minutes of bargaining, depending on how heavy the traffic was and whether the driver wanted to go in a particular direction.

  ‘You tourists?’ asked the driver. He was in his fifties with greying, spiky hair and skin that was as leathery and weatherbeaten as an old saddle.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Doc.

  The driver looked at them in his rearview mirror as he negotiated a way through several dozen bicycling schoolchildren.

  ‘You here during war?’ he asked.

  The Americans looked at each other. Doc shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  ‘American GIs, Number One!’ he cackled.

  They passed two cyclos, hybrids of bicycles and rickshaws, with two thin Vietnamese teenagers pedalling hard up an incline, ferrying two obese tourists in T-shirts and shorts who were filming each other with video cameras. A beautiful young girl in a pale green ao dai and black evening gloves drove by on a Honda moped. She smiled at Ramirez and he beamed back.

  ‘You were a soldier?’ asked Hammack.

  ‘Damn right,’ said the driver, cackling again.

  ‘What, with ARVN?’ The Army of the Republic of South Vietnam. The soldiers who were supposed to be fighting alongside the Americans, but who more often than not proved to be a liability rather than an asset.

  The driver laughed louder. ‘No, me VC!’ he said, thumping his chest.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Ramirez.

  ‘VC. Damn right!’ He twisted around in his seat. ‘We won, huh?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Doc. He looked across at his two companions. Hammack and Ramirez sat stony faced, their arms folded across their chests.

  The driver dropped them in front of a bustling market with stalls bedecked with clothes and shoes, vendors selling food, and tables strewn with cheap plastic toys. The three Americans threaded their way through to the rear of the indoor market where most of the clothing was in camouflage fabric and the plastic toys and electrical equipment gave way to war surplus equipment. There were lines of old gas masks, combat boots, webbing belts, canteens, flashlights; enough equipment to outfit an army. Hammack and Ramirez stood with surprised looks on their faces.

  ‘How did you find out about this place?’ asked Hammack.

  ‘It’s in the guide book, believe it or not,’ said Doc. ‘Dan Sinh Market. Most of it is reproduction, tourists love it.’

  Ramirez was looking at a rack of field stretchers and a medical kit with a red cross on it. ‘This looks genuine,’ he said.

  ‘Some of it is, but a lot of it is made here.’

  Ramirez tossed him the medical kit and Doc opened it. Inside were bandages, dressings, sutures and hypodermics. The quality looked as good as anything he had back in his surgery in Bangkok. He wondered whether buying it would be taken as a bad omen by his two companions, but he decided that it would be essential, to deal with the cuts and bruises they’d get just negotiating the tunnels. He bought it, along with several tubes of antiseptic ointment and mosquito repellent from a neighbouring stall.

  The three Americans chose the clothing they’d wear, all opting for T-shirts and jeans, knowing how hot it would get underground. They selected small nylon rucksacks, checking them for fit, and plastic canteens because they’d sweat like crazy and dehydration would be one of their biggest problems.

  Ramirez found a stall selling knives and they argued for a while over which would be the best type to buy. Ramirez wanted a killing weapon, but Doc’s view was that they’d be most useful for probing for booby traps and hidden trapdoors. Eventually they agreed to differ: Ramirez selected a large hunting knife, Doc chose a bayonet-type knife and Hammack a smaller weapon in a plastic scabbard. A neighbouring stall sold compasses, including several aviation models that appeared to have been stripped from planes. They chose the most rugged and easy-to-read models they could find.

  Doc took out a pen and crossed off the items they’d purchased. ‘Flashlights,’ he said.

  They bought flashlights and spare batteries, three green canvas kitbags with ‘USMC’ stamped on them, and the rest of the equipment that was on the list. The last thing that Doc bought was a small folding shovel. Hammack and Ramirez looked away as Doc put it in one of the kitbags with the rest of his purchases.

  It took Nick Wright and Jim Bamber more than an hour to pass through immigration, and it was another hour before their bags rolled out on to the carousel. They carried their bags over to Customs where two green-uniformed young women with waist-length hair helped load them through an X-ray machine.

  ‘This doesn’t make sense,’ said Wright. ‘Shouldn’t they be X-raying luggage before it goes on the plane?’

  ‘It’s not about safety, it’s about contraband,’ said Bamber. ‘There’s a lot of duty imposed on stuff brought into the country, computers and the like.’

  One of the girls pointed at Bamber’s case as it rolled out of the X-ray machine. ‘I bet I know what this is about,’ he sighed. He popped the locks and opened the case. She went through his clothes and pulled out the two sets of infra-red goggles. Bamber smiled easily. ‘Binoculars,’ he said, miming putting a pair to his eyes and looking through them. ‘For night-time. For watching birds at night-time.’

  She held out her hand for the Customs form he was holding. Wright’s suitcase emerged from the X-ray machine and a middle-aged man with a squint motioned for Wright to open it. He riffled through the contents and took out Wright’s portable telephone and charging unit.

  ‘You have receipt?’ the girl asked Bamber. The FBI agent shook his head. She pointed at the form. ‘You have to put down how much they cost.’

  Her colleague held Wright’s form a few in
ches away from his face. ‘Fill in form properly,’ he said.

  Wright borrowed Bamber’s pen, detailed the phone and charging unit on the back of the form. They handed over their forms and were told they could go. They walked out into the arrivals area.

  ‘Are we going to hire a car?’ asked Wright.

  ‘No can do,’ said Bamber. ‘Guide book says you can’t drive here. Cops’ll stop any foreigner they see at the wheel. We have to take a taxi.’

  They went outside and Wright was hit by a wave of heat and humidity that made him gasp. ‘Jeez! It’s hotter even than Bangkok, and Bangkok was sweltering,’ said Wright. He put down his suitcase and holdall and surveyed the line of gleaming white Toyotas. ‘One of them?’ he asked.

  Bamber rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Might be a bit suspicious climbing into a cab here and heading straight out into the country,’ he said. ‘I reckon we should go to Saigon and switch cars there.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Wright. Bamber seemed to know what he was doing so Wright was happy to let him take charge. Wright was having trouble concentrating – all he could think about was the tunnels.

  Hammack kicked his motorcycle into life and blipped the throttle. ‘Sounds sweet,’ he said.

  Hammack was sitting astride a Yamaha trail bike, his kitbag tied to the back. Doc and Ramirez were on fairly new Honda trail bikes, the wheels of which were crusted with mud. All three Americans were wearing jeans and white cotton shirts with the sleeves buttoned at the wrist to provide protection from the sun, and they had rented gloves and full-face helmets with tinted visors from the man who’d supplied the bikes.

  Ramirez gave Doc a thumbs-up. ‘Rock and roll,’ he said.

  ‘Remember, the roads can be dangerous, so we take it slow and watch out for potholes,’ said Doc. ‘I don’t want to have to do any needlework on the way up, okay?’

  Hammack and Ramirez nodded.

  Doc flicked his visor down and led the way out of the shop, bumping carefully off the pavement and on to the road. Hammack and Ramirez followed. The three motorcyclists headed north, nudging their way through the battalions of cyclists and moped riders.

  A red Isuzu turned out of a side street and headed after them.

  ‘Okay, stop here,’ said Bamber, tapping the taxi driver on the shoulder. At the roadside was a line of shabby cars, and a group of Vietnamese men stood in the shade of a tree, watching a flickering television fixed to the inside wall of one of the shops that lined the road.

  Bamber paid the driver with a handful of Vietnamese currency as Wright climbed out. The two men put their suitcases and holdalls on the pavement and watched their taxi drive away.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Wright.

  ‘I’m pretty sure these guys are for hire,’ said Bamber.

  ‘They don’t have taxi signs,’ said Wright.

  Two of the men who’d been watching television walked over. ‘You want car?’ the taller of the two asked.

  Bamber winked at Wright. ‘Told you.’ He nodded at the car at the head of the queue, a Mercedes with rusty wings that must have been at least twenty years old. ‘How much for one day?’

  The two men spoke to each other in Vietnamese. The shorter one shook his head. ‘Where you want to go?’

  ‘North,’ said Bamber. ‘Past Ben Suc, up by the Thi Tinh River.’

  The two men pulled faces and shrugged. ‘One hundred and twenty dollars for one day,’ said the shorter one.

  ‘Eighty,’ said Bamber.

  ‘One hundred,’ said the man.

  Bamber nodded. ‘Okay.’ He grinned at Wright. ‘What the hell, the Bureau’s picking up the check, right?’

  Wright picked up his suitcase. The man already had the boot open and he helped Wright heave it in. ‘My name Chinh,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Nick. He’s Jim.’

  ‘Nick. Jim.’ The driver said their names several times as if trying to commit them to memory as he loaded Bamber’s metal suitcase on top of Wright’s. Bamber and Wright got into the back of the car with their holdalls. The driver went into one of the roadside shops and emerged with a carrier bag containing two plastic bottles of mineral water. He handed them to Wright and started the car. Clouds of black smoke billowed from the exhaust and the engine coughed, backfired, then roared. ‘Diesel,’ said the driver. ‘Okay soon. Where we go?’

  ‘Head for Ben Suc, then I’ll show you.’

  A policeman blew a whistle and held up a white gloved hand to stop the traffic. Chinh braked hard, throwing the Americans forward. ‘You want to go down the tunnels?’ said Chinh. ‘Better you go to Cu Chi. Many tourists go there. Lots of fun.’

  ‘We don’t want to go to the Cu Chi tunnels,’ said Bamber, as hundreds of bicycles rolled by. ‘We want to go further north. And we want you to wait for us.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Ten hours. Maybe longer.’

  Chinh clicked his tongue. ‘Where you go?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s not your problem,’ said Bamber. ‘You drop us, you wait for us, you drive us back to Saigon.’

  The policeman blew his whistle again and Chinh put the taxi in gear and edged forward.

  ‘Okay,’ said Chinh. ‘You the boss.’

  May Eckhardt drove through a small village where women were using hoes to spread rice along the roadside so that it would dry in the baking hot sun. Several of the women looked up as she went by – it was still unusual to see a woman behind the wheel in Vietnam. May accelerated as she reached the outskirts of the village, veering over to the wrong side of the road to give a wide berth to a cart being pulled by two massive water buffaloes, their spreading horns at least six feet wide. The cart was piled high with sacks of rice, grains of which dribbled from the sides of the cart. Rice splattered against the Isuzu like rain, then she was past the cart and powering down the dusty road. Rice paddies stretched on either side almost to the horizon, lush and green, and young men stood knee deep in the canals that ran around the rice fields, fishing with nets that they threw like lassos.

  In the far distance she could just make out the three motorcyclists and she slowed down. There was no need to get too close. She knew exactly where they were going. Her hands were light on the steering wheel, caressing rather than gripping, and she hummed softly to herself.

  Jim Bamber unzipped his holdall and took out a green plastic map case. He unfolded it and held it up so that Wright could see it. It was hand drawn in black ink, the paper yellowing at the edges.

  ‘This is a Defense Department map?’ asked Wright. ‘They let you have the original?’

  ‘Yeah, I was surprised, but I guess they’ve got copies,’ said Bamber.

  The map was in five parts, each a sheet about two feet square. The top sheet showed features of the landscape – hills, a river, several small villages – and there were several crosses marked on it. In the top right-hand corner of the map was a compass showing north.

  ‘This area was called the Long Nguyen Secret Zone,’ said Bamber. ‘It covered both sides of the Thi Tinh River. The Iron Triangle was about fifteen miles south, here.’ He pointed at the map.

  ‘And the crosses?’

  ‘Tunnel entrances,’ said Bamber.

  ‘I thought there was only one way in?’ said Wright.

  Chinh pounded on his horn. From the moment he’d left the outskirts of Saigon he’d insisted on using the horn every time he came up behind a cyclist, letting them know that he was about to overtake. The constant noise irritated Wright, but despite several times asking him to stop doing it, Chinh persisted.

  ‘There are entrances all over the area,’ said the FBI agent, ‘but they’re not all connected. That was one of the reasons the army found it so difficult to close them down.’

  He flipped over the first sheet, which also had a compass in the top right corner. Written across the top in capital letters was ‘FIRST LEVEL’. The map had black crosses that coincided with the crosses on the first sheet.

  ‘This is where the entrances lead to,’
said Bamber. ‘See what I mean? They’re not all connected.’

  The various entrances were linked by a network of tunnels. Some of the tunnels simply ran from one entrance to another, apparently connecting firing points, while others ran to larger rooms. Scattered across the map were four red crosses. Wright tapped one of them.

  ‘What do they represent?’ he asked.

  ‘Hatches that lead down to the second level,’ said Bamber.

  He flipped the sheet over. Underneath was a map marked ‘SECOND LEVEL’, with matching red crosses on it. The second level contained much larger rooms and fewer tunnels. Wright peered at the notes that had been made alongside several of the squares that denoted the different rooms.

  ‘A cinema?’ he said in amazement.

  ‘Yeah, they used to show propaganda movies underground. And they had dance troupes that used to tour around giving performances, poetry readings, the works.’

  ‘And this,’ said Wright, pointing at the map. ‘This is a well?’

  ‘That’s right. They could draw their own water without leaving the tunnels. They had water, food stores, supplies of fuel. They could live down there for months.’ He turned the sheet. ‘This is the third level. They only discovered one way down, so much of the third level is unexplored.’ He pointed at a blue cross. ‘And this is the only way down to the fourth level.’

  ‘The fourth level? I thought you said there were only three.’

  Chinh slammed on the brakes and swerved into the middle of the road. Wright and Bamber were thrown apart and the map tore. Chinh pounded his horn. A flock of more than a hundred white ducks with bright orange bills scattered across the road. Two young Vietnamese boys with long canes jogged after the birds, shouting and waving. Bamber inspected the damaged map. It was only a small rip.

  Chinh swung the car back on to the right side of the road. He twisted around in his seat and smiled apologetically. ‘Roads bad up country,’ he said.

  ‘Sure are,’ agreed Bamber. Ahead of them loomed a truck piled high with boxes of fruit. Bamber pointed at the truck and raised his eyebrows. Chinh turned around and narrowly avoided crashing into it. Two women riding bicycles piled high with firewood watched open mouthed as the car flashed by, missing them by inches.