Nam-A-Rama
Page 33
Gearheardt looked at the scores of speeding cars screaming by in front of us. He stepped into the street and was oblivious to the screeching brakes and chaotic swerving going on around him. I stuck close to his side.
“I knew you were there, Jack,” he shouted over the noise of the traffic. “But I needed to get my structure in place before I contacted you. Besides, you thought I was a standing rib roast. And don’t think I don’t know that you slept with Dow after I was dead.”
Which was true and caught me slightly off guard. “I was just—”
“If you say you were just horny, I’ll forgive you. I don’t want to hear anything else. I didn’t make up excuses for screwing all of your girlfriends.”
I needed a minute to think through what he had said, and Gearheardt went on.
“Let’s talk about Mexico, Jack. Let’s talk about Mexico and Cuba,” he said as we mercifully reached the curb.
We were in the park. Every night the park was lit like a festival. Bright lights underneath the giant trees. Families and lovers were the main human ingredients. The park’s aura belied its existence in the heart of a frantic downtown Mexico City. At the city end of the park was the Chapultepec Castle where the U.S. Marines once fought. Not far away, on the other side of the boulevard, the National Museum of History was a crown jewel, a world-class archeological exhibition palace.
Gearheardt sat on a bench beneath one of the mammoth trees and I dropped down beside him as he lit a cigarette.
“Those are the Halls of Montezuma, Jack,” he said, pointing to the castle. “You know, the Shores of Tripoli and all that stuff.”
“I know the Marine Corps hymn, Gearheardt.”
“Don’t you kind of still miss the Marine Corps, Jack? This CIA stuff is fun but there’s no camaraderie or anything. Every man out for himself, know what I mean? If I’m going to try to take over a country or just kill some officials, I like to do it with a bunch of good guys. Have a few beers or something, you know? Blow something up and then run like hell. That’s my style, not all this sneaking around and using some local dickhead with a burr up his ass about his own politicians.”
“You haven’t changed a bit, Gearheardt. A hand grenade looking for a place to explode.”
Gearheardt and I had been young Marine pilots when we were asked by the president to go on a mission to Hanoi to stop the Vietnam War. We didn’t do a very good job, to say the least, and were traded to Air America and the CIA after we escaped from North Vietnam. Gearheardt resented our treatment, but I thought we received better than we deserved. Gearheardt screwing Uncle Ho’s girlfriend might have caused the 1968 Tet offensive. But that was behind us now.
“Got a cigarette, Jack?” Gearheardt asked.
“I gave it up. The air in Mexico City is enough to keep a good cough going.”
Gearheardt waved to a young boy selling cigarettes and gum. He bought a package of each, borrowing the pesos from me and letting the boy keep the considerable change.
“I gave it up too. But I’m starting again.” He lit another cigarette and blew smoke, tilting his head up and away from me. “My only hobby.”
Gearheardt sat for a moment contemplating the almost carnivallike scene in what we could see of the park. When he spoke, he didn’t turn his head toward me.
“This country is screwed, Jack. The new rich folks are stealing from the old rich folks. The politicians are crooked as a dog’s hind leg. The peasants don’t know enough to give a shit. And if they do get ahead, by some damn miracle, they just join the stealing crowd. Most of the Mexicans are just dicked.” He flipped his cigarette onto the sidewalk. “The situation is so pathetic it almost makes me feel bad to screw their women.”
Gearheardt didn’t deal in irony and I knew that I was about to hear what he meant when he said he (the CIA? Gearheardt individually?) was taking over Mexico. So I kept my mouth shut.
Now he turned toward me. “Cuba has it all together, Jack. The man has things under control.”
I assumed he meant Castro.
“You’ve never been to Cuba, Gearheardt. And have you forgotten the Cubans in Hanoi? The assholes torturing American pilots?”
“In Angola they’re kicking ass and taking names, Jack. Toughest damn troops you ever saw. Disciplined and under control. In a fair fight, we would have a hard time knocking them on their butt. I’m not kidding you.”
“What has this got to do with taking over Mexico?” I asked.
Gearheardt lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “The Russians would piss their pants if we had troops in Mexico, Jack. God knows what the Chinese would do. I would imagine they couldn’t even find Mexico with a map. But you never know. France is still pissed the Mexicans executed Maximilian. Heaven knows what Germany is cooking up. Spain hates the Mexicans because they don’t want people to think Mexicans are Spanish. South America is jungle and dancing in bars. Sure, there are countries that don’t have their own screwed-up political agendas and axes to grind. But can you see Iceland invading Mexico? Maybe if they teamed up with Greenland they could blast their way ashore at Acapulco, but then what? So Mexico just sits here, right on our border, festering and rotting in the sun.”
“I have no idea what that rambling means, Gearheardt.” The concept of Icelandic troops storming Acapulco momentarily causing my mental gears to grind. “But let me explain a couple of things to you, my friend. First, there are more Russian spies in Mexico than there are Cubans in Havana. We assume they are trying to turn the country. And we’re not going to let them.
“Second, I don’t know what all this festering in the sun is about, but we’re making progress here. I mean the Agency is. And we are not actually hoping some wild-ass renegade hit man recently from Angola might suggest backing the Cubans in a coup, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Gearheardt was maddeningly humming, his face turned away from me. I grabbed his arm. “Are you listening to me you damn wild man? No coups! If that—”
“Ix-nay on the oo-cay stuff, Jack. This Toro I see before me might speak a little English.”
I had not noticed two large Mexicans standing closely in front of us. Their black suits, tight in the shoulders, and sunglasses told me they were not lovers out for a stroll. Halcones, the Mexican Secret Police. I leaned back onto the bench and knew that I should say something before Gearheardt—as he did every damn time we faced any authority—pissed them off. I never could understand how anyone could see worth a damn through those sunglasses at night.
“You boys big Ray Charles fans?” he asked, smiling the Gearheardt smile and spreading his arms across the back of the bench.
The colored lights strung along the walkways twinkled in the sunglasses. The men behind the glasses didn’t seem to get the reference. In any event they were not amused.
“Get up, gringo,” the closest toro said, speaking to Gearheardt.
I started to rise, pulling my diplomatic passport (black instead of civilian green) out of my inside breast pocket. “Señores,” I began, “there might be some mistake. My friend and—”
“Creo que no,” the smaller bull said. “No mistake. Your friend is coming along with us. This is no business of yours, Senor Armstrong. Go home.”
“Jack,” Gearheardt said, now on his feet and facing down the first Halcón, “this is not unexpected. The man asked you politely to go home. You might want to do just that. These gentlemen want to buy me a beer. They didn’t invite you.” He smiled and stepped between the two policemen, who turned and followed him without looking back at me.
Who was standing on the sidewalk in Chapultepec Park worrying about a friend who had just been picked up by the meanest secret police in the world. I was pissed, knowing that I was now becoming part of something that Gearheardt had no doubt dreamed up and which would completely disrupt my life if it didn’t kill me.
That damn Gearheardt, I thought.
The Mexican boy selling cigarettes appeared beside me. He looked at the three figures disappearing into the
dark street running behind the park.
“That damn Gearheardt,” he said. Then he left while I was still speechless.
About the Author
PHILLIP JENNINGS was both a decorated Marine helicopter pilot in Vietnam and an Air America pilot in Laos. Nam-A-Rama is his first novel. He lives in Washington State.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
NAM-A-RAMA
Copyright © 2006 by Phillip Jennings
Excerpt from Goodbye Mexico copyright © 2007 by Phillip Jennings
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Moshe Feder
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429912587
First eBook Edition : March 2011
First Edition: March 2005
First Mass Market Edition: March 2007