“Can you see me as a college student? Among all those little draft-dodging cocksuckers? I’d be in jail for wringing a couple of necks before the first semester was out.”
“You paint a pretty bleak picture. Shit, I never expected to survive this thing. Now I’m gonna have to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”
“One thing you can do, Roger asked me to tell you, was keep an open mind about doing a little work for the Agency, off and on. As he puts it, ‘You have developed some unique skills which may very well be of use to us now and again.’ ”
“Christ, isn’t that something to look forward to? Like a dose of clap.”
“Yeah, well, you’d have to be the one to be the judge of that. I got no experience in that area, bein’ the foine Irish Catholic lad I am. Faith and begorra. And all that shit.”
“You are such a lying asshole. Okay. When do we leave?”
“Couple’a hours. We got a special flight for you. Unless you want to leave on the same plane as your girlfriend.”
“You are a slime-sucking pig. And if I didn’t love you, I’d shoot your ass.”
“God, I love it when you talk dirty. Want a drink?”
Al was very surprised when, at the bar of the nearby MACV compound, Jim ordered a Coke. “Damn, boy,” he said, after taking a long pull of his beer, “you have been through a hard time. You’re not going to get holy on me, are you?”
Jim shook his head. “Just don’t feel like drinking right now. I get drunk, I’d probably be maudlin. Cry on your shoulder. Start talking about what a worthless asshole I was.”
“And I’d probably agree with you. I’m very qualified to talk about worthless assholes, you know. Enough people have called me that.”
“At least you’re not jinxed.”
“Oh, come off it,” Al said. “I know what you think. And you’re full of shit. People die. All the time. You’ve had the bad luck to be around a lot of them. Most people go through their entire life without having to see anybody die, except from old age. Not that way for you and me. You watch people get hit, you start to think too much about it. You start to think, why not me? Is it my fault? Am I doing something wrong? Or am I just bad luck? You think I haven’t had thoughts like that? They’re bullshit! And I don’t want to hear any more about it. Or I might just beat the shit out of you yet.”
“Well tell me something else, Mr. Deep Thinker. What about what these guys were trying to do. Would it have worked? Would it have ended the war? Maybe I fucked up.”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to that one. Barkeep! Another beer for me and a soft drink for my fairy friend. Roger says no. Says there’s been talk in the High Command in Hanoi for some time about a new tactic to shorten the war. But their man up there couldn’t find out what it was. They kept that tighter’n a nun’s box. All he did know was, it was supposed to get the Americans out. Then the NVA were going to mass troops, tanks, artillery, a regular fucking invasion, at the border. They’d’a gone through the South like a dose of salts. So looks like you set that one back a little bit. You’re a regular fucking hero! Not that anybody will ever know about it. Roger told me to tell you that you’ll have to sign a nondisclosure statement before you leave. Something like if you ever breathe a word of this they’ll find a real good assignment for you in Leavenworth.”
“That’s a relief. I guess. Who says you can’t change things?”
“Yeah, you’ve changed a lot. Which, we suspect, has made you a very unpopular boy in Hanoi. Best thing for you is, get on the other side of the world, real quick. Oh, and by the way. Roger also told me to tell you that you’re going to get another Silver Star. My, my, won’t you look pretty!”
Billy Martinez, the special police advisor, saw them sitting at the bar, came over. “I hear you’re leaving, Jim,” he said. “Real sorry to hear that. You sure made life interesting around here. Couple days ago my troops got the word to shoot you on sight. Then it was rescinded a few hours later. You want to tell me what the fuck was going on?”
“ ’Fraid not. You wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“Well, shit. Ain’t that the way everything goes on around here. So many secrets sometimes I don’t know if I’m tellin’ the truth to myself. The mushroom theory. Keep ’em in the dark and feed ’em horseshit. When you leaving?”
“ ’Bout thirty minutes,” interjected Al. “You drink beer? Siddown, I’ll buy you one. I hear you’re a pretty good shot with an M-16.”
The bar boy doubled over in pain. Told the bartender he had diarrhea, had to go. When he cleared the place his pain magically went away. He started to run.
Chapter XVII
“Hey, Billy,” Al said to his new-found friend, “you could do us a real big favor.”
“Why does my asshole pucker when I hear you say that?” replied the police advisor. “Last favor I did was back on the force in LA, took a guy’s shift for him. Later that night we had to respond to a small civil disturbance. Watts.”
“This one’s easy. We got to go to the airfield, and I’ve got the POIC’s jeep. I could just leave it out there, let them pick it up later, but what the hell, you could ride out with us and bring it back. I’ll get us a couple’a beers to go.”
Billy considered it for a moment, didn’t see anything wrong with the idea. He was enjoying the company, especially Al. Jim seemed a little taciturn, but he ascribed that to the fact that he wasn’t drinking. In his opinion, there wasn’t anything so bad that a drink or two wouldn’t make it better. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
“Attaboy,” Al said, in his best W. C. Fields imitation. “Stick with me, son, you’ll have diamonds on your cuffs big as golfballs. So many medals they won’t be able to close your casket.”
“I’ll leave the medals to you heroes,” he said as they walked, six-pack in hand, to the jeep. “Me, all I want to do is finish this contract and get back to good old LAPD. Where I’ll never complain about anything again. Christ, I didn’t realize what a good life I had! Gettin’ shot at maybe once a month instead of once a day. Goin’ out with rookies who, though they may not have been too smart, you could be pretty sure they were on the same side you were.”
They got in the jeep, Billy refusing the front seat. “You get the place of honor,” he told Jim. “Us beaners don’t mind riding in the back. Hell, we’re used to it.”
“I thought the POIC’s jeep had a top on it,” Jim said to Al.
“It did. I got rid of it. Anybody stupid enough to be riding around this country with a top on the jeep is just too stupid to live. So, Billy,” he said as he started the vehicle, “what chance do you think I’d have if I was to apply for a job with the force?”
“Don’t know,” Billy admitted. He opened one of the beers, gave it to Al, offered another to Jim, who refused. “The department has all kinds of stupid rules. Education requirements, age limitations, height and weight restrictions, that kind of shit. Don’t matter what you might know, how much experience you could bring to the job. I’ve heard a lot of cops say they’d rather have someone completely green, that way they don’t have to unlearn a lot of bad habits.”
“See what I’m saying, Jimmy,” Al said. “We don’t have a hell of a lot of career choices. Peacetime army, here we come. Ready or not. Somehow I think they’re not going to be.”
“Hey,” he said, moments later after they had pulled out onto the road. “Looks like we’ve got company. Some of your PRU want to say good-bye.”
Jim looked around, saw that a jeepload of PRU, including Tu, had pulled in behind them. He was glad. It had seemed so anticlimactic, leaving without saying anything to anyone. He reminded himself to try to get the address of Tu’s cousin. If he was going to have to go to Germany, perhaps he would be able to get over to Paris for a visit.
On the way to the airfield he soaked up last impressions, letting the activity of the city imprint itself upon his brain. They went over the bridge, Billy pointing out the fresh bullet scars from his M-16. Soon they
would blend with all the others. Past Chandragar’s shop. Wonder how he’ll get along with the new advisor? One thing I know for sure is that he’ll survive. The old imperial city came up on the right, scarred and torn from the battle. As nearly destroyed as it was, it still held a certain sense of majesty. On through the shanty village that had sprung up on the other side, hundreds of refugees living in conditions little better than that of animals. But it was preferable to the slaughter that went on in the countryside.
They seemed happy enough. The old men squatted beside the huts, talking about god-knows-what. The children, in the way of children all over the world, played in the dusty street, inventing games in which the rules changed by the moment.
Usually, that is. Today the street was deserted. No sign of anyone. “Al!” he yelled, flipping the safety off the CAR-15, “Ambush!”
The VC commander had been cursing his luck. He’d been far too rushed, after he got the word that his target was coming, to set up a proper ambush. Time only to set up a rough L-shape, with the RPD machinegun on the short leg, where the road made a sharp curve. The other members of his squad were deployed on the long leg, taking as much cover as possible in the flimsy huts. No time to place any mines, emplant Claymores. He was not satisfied at all; still, he had set up many ambushes in even worse conditions and they had been successful. No choice, anyway. It was this shot or none. He had been shocked to hear, after the long trip north specifically to hit this one target, that the target would soon be irrevocably out of reach. It had been a long, hard trip. He hoped it was worth it, though he did not see how it could be. Out of the eighteen men he had started with only twelve remained. Of his losses, one had succumbed to malaria, two had been killed by the random bombing that went on incessantly up and down the trail, and another three had been lost when they themselves had been ambushed by one of the accursed teams the Americans were using in the rear areas. When this was over he intended to write a scathing report to COSVN, to the effect that if they could not protect their own rear areas, what use was it to have all those North Vietnamese security troops? Better to send them into the South to fight against the main force American and South Vietnamese units, and give the mission of protecting the rear-area to units such as his, which would stalk and be stalked, man against man, team against team, in a very close and personal war.
The target came in sight. Three Americans in the jeep. Good. Another jeep following a hundred yards behind. His agent had not warned him about that! Still, it should provide no real problem. Plenty of room to get them both in the kill zone. A few more seconds, when the first jeep was within twenty-five yards of the machinegun. He placed his hand on the gunner’s shoulder, ready to give the signal.
Then watched, frustrated, as the first jeep slewed broadside, tires skidding in the soft dirt, sending up rooster tails as they spun. “Fire!” he screamed, “Fire!”
“Noooo,” he was moaning as the first rounds smacked into the jeep. It was all a bad dream, one he’d had so many times. The deserted street, the sense of foreboding, the threat weighing so heavily it was palpable, the feeling that he had come here, finally, to die. The muzzle flashes were everywhere, rounds snapping around him in a continuous song. He was returning fire, pouring magazine after magazine at the unseen enemy, but it was as if the bullets were disappearing.
Al wrenched the wheel back and forth, zigzagging the jeep all over the road. A burst came through the windshield, showering them both with glass. He heard a cry from the backseat, risked looking back, saw Billy looking in horror at a shattered arm from which the blood pumped in heavy dark jets.
It’s happening again, it’s happening again. My God, it’s happening again.
Al let out a great whoosh of air as a bullet slammed into his stomach, causing him to slump over the steering wheel. The jeep slowed momentarily as his foot came off the accelerator, then jumped forward again as, ignoring the pain, he pressed it to the floor.
“Gonna…hit ’em…Jimmy,” he grunted, steering the vehicle toward the nearest hut. “Get…down.”
The jeep smashed through the bamboo hut like it was made of paper, shattering the cheap furniture and two men who had been sheltering behind it. Another got up to run and Jim zippered him from pelvis to head.
Al slumped over the wheel. Bullets were starting to come through the sides of the shattered hut. Jim took only enough time to reload, then pulled his heavy friend from the vehicle and dragged him forward where the tire and wheel gave cover from at least one direction. Scurried back and pulled an unconscious Martinez from the rear. The blood was still pumping, though not as strongly as before. He pulled a cravat bandage from a pouch on his belt, wrapped it quickly above the wound, inserted a small piece of wood and twisted the fabric tight. The bleeding slowed to a soft ooze. It was obvious the man was in shock; not too much he could do about that now.
“Jimmy,” whispered Al, “get the fuck out of here. Save yourself.
Tears were streaming down his face. “I thought you were dead, you sonofabitch, I thought you were dead. Don’t you die on me, you bastard.”
Al managed a smile. “Don’t make me start laughing, you asshole,” he said. “My belly hurts too much.”
“Boy, do you look like shit!” Al’s face was cut in several places from the glass. A large gash had been opened in his forehead when he impacted against the steering wheel, blood flowing freely from it. He took a pressure bandage and covered the wound, tying the tails around his friend’s head, cradling it in his lap.
“Don’t put the motherfucker around my eyes! And get my gun. They’re gonna be in here in a minute or two. I’ll cover for you, try to hold ’em off. You get out of here and get some help.”
“Not this time, my friend. Not this time.” Jim felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. “This time, I don’t leave anyone behind.”
It was going very badly wrong. He was almost sure the Americans had been wounded before they had hit the hut, but that wasn’t good enough. His superiors had been very insistent that he had to make sure this particular one was dead. He took stock of the situation. His troops were now separated; himself, the machinegunner, and four others on one side of the shattered hut, three more to the other side. He had to assume that the three men inside the hut were out of action.
The three on the other end were at least pinning down the PRU men from the other jeep. He made a quick tactical decision. “Stay here and give us covering fire,” he told the machinegunner. “I’m going to take the others and assault. We’ll finish them off, then get out. Cover our retreat.”
The gunner signaled his understanding, sighted down the gun, and sent another burst into the hut. Good man, the commander thought. They had been together almost from the beginning. Owed one another their lives on too many occasions to count. He would remain here and cover them, even if it cost him his own life. With enough men like this, the VC thought, I could rule the world. There had been many like him, once. But they had all died.
Out of the hut, using all available cover and concealment. A few scattered bullets came his way, but for the most part the PRU soldiers were more concerned with the men pinning them down. Into the next hut, where the four men lay. “Come,” he said. “Let us finish this.”
“They’re gonna come from this side,” Jim said. “I think the ones on the other side are too busy to bother us.” He had cleared just enough of the debris away to give them reasonable fields of fire, had pulled what remained of a teak table to their front to give a little bit of cover. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
Billy, who was intermittently conscious, moaned in pain. Wish I had some morphine, Jim thought. Though I don’t think any of us are going to feel much pain pretty soon.
It comes to this, he thought. He felt curiously happy. No more dreams, no more running away, no more worries. This is where I was meant to be. This is the way it started, this is the way it will end. Once again he checked magazines. Plenty of ammunition. The pistol was close at hand, its c
heckered grip gleaming beautiful and smooth in the dim light.
“Jimmy,” croaked Al, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any water in your little bag of tricks, do you?”
“You know better than that. Gutshot people can’t have water. Washes all the nasties into the belly cavity, sets up a hell of a case of peritonitis.”
Al grinned. “Medic until the last, ain’t you? It ever occur to you that I’m not going to have to worry about peritonitis?”
“We ain’t dead yet, buddy. Don’t you believe in miracles?”
“Not since I quit being an altar boy. Do you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I could be wrong, too. Shit, here they come!”
They were good. They used every bit of cover and concealment, moving forward in short rushes, the others covering with well-aimed semiautomatic fire that came uncomfortably close. It would have come a lot closer, he knew, had they known exactly where to shoot. He and Al held their fire; the targets disappeared too quickly for it to have done any good, and the muzzle flashes would have given their position away. He counted five of them. Plus another one or two with the machinegun giving covering fire. Not good odds. But the feeling of peace would not go away. He turned to Al, smiled. “How you doin’, buddy?” he asked.
“Other than being gutshot, not too bad.” Al returned the smile. “We be in deep shit, you know.”
“I figure if we can hold them off for just a little while, maybe it’ll give the PRU enough time to get to us. Sounds like they’re doin’ okay.” The firefight to their other side had tapered off somewhat, with the heavy thud of AK-47s sounding less and less often against the higher-pitched crack of the M-16s.
“Yeah, and maybe God’ll strike these guys by lightning. Watch it!” A stick grenade landed several feet in front of them, the crude fuse smoking. They had just enough time to take shelter behind the table before it exploded, sending heavy pieces of shrapnel thudding into the wood.
Into the Treeline Page 29
