“Maybe they should. I pay taxes like anybody else. Be nice to know how they’re bein’ spent.”
“What are you looking for in the military, Private?”
Lincoln dug the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Just, you know, doin’ my duty. Tryin’ to make it through each day.”
“You’re setting your sights too low. Man like you? You should be Special Forces. You want to be where the action is, right?”
“Special Forces? I don’t think I’m cut out for that. Don’t you need a diploma for that?”
“Just high school. You have that, right?”
Lincoln nodded. He had never considered the possibility of wearing the Green Beret. Even having this conversation felt like some strange dream. “Yeah,” he said.
“That’s what I thought. You could have a great military career ahead of you, Private Clay, but you’ve got to make the right moves. It doesn’t just happen—you’ve got to make it happen.”
Lincoln shook his head. He knew, from hard experience, how this went down. Guys like him, poor kids from Delray Hollow, were offered all kinds of things, only to have those chances vanish as soon as they got their hopes up. “I just don’t see it.”
“Clay, I’m not in the habit of blowing smoke up people’s asses,” Franklin said. “I think you could have a shot at it. If you want it. That’s the key. You’ve got to want it first.”
There had been plenty of things in his life that Lincoln had wanted. Some he had acquired; others had remained forever out of reach. But there was something about this idea he found appealing. “I’ve heard some stories about the Green Berets. They get to make their own rules. Go in where it’s hot and heat it up some more. Sounds all right to me.”
“Now you’re talking,” Franklin said.
“But I’m here. Doesn’t it take a year of training stateside to earn the beret?”
“Ordinarily, yes. But these aren’t ordinary times, Clay. This war’s going to ramp up fast, and we’re going to bear more and more of the burden, despite whatever Johnson and McNamara are saying on the evening news. We’re going to need good men. Let me see if I can pull some strings.”
Lincoln figured the man had some kind of angle, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be. People didn’t just offer to help each other out that way, not unless they got something in return.
“For me?”
Franklin put a hand on Lincoln’s broad shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. “Clay, you just found a Soviet agent ninety clicks from Saigon. If you’re not careful, you might get called to Washington so LBJ can pin a medal on your chest. And believe me, you don’t want to come to the attention of anybody in Washington. I’ll see what I can do to make sure your future is as a fighting man, not as a wooden Indian with a chestful of ribbons.”
• • •
Lincoln didn’t expect anything to come of the promise. He was just an infantry private who’d had a lucky break. And he still couldn’t see what Franklin would get out of it.
So he was surprised to find himself, two weeks later, on an airplane back to the World, as everybody stationed in Vietnam had taken to calling the US. As soon as Vietnam fell away below him, he was joined by a lean, rangy colonel whose raw-edged features could have been chopped from a log with a hatchet. He wore his beret at a rakish angle; bare scalp gleamed beneath it. He introduced himself as Philip Giunta. Lincoln could hear some Brooklyn in his accent, though it wasn’t strong.
“Thanks for agreeing to this assignment,” Giunta said, once the introductions were done.
“Did I agree to something?”
“According to Tom Franklin, you did. He made a strong case for you. It’s unusual, to say the least, but Tom has friends in high places.”
“Where exactly am I goin’?” Lincoln asked.
“Fort Benning, Georgia.”
“What’s at Fort Benning?”
“Jump school,” Giunta replied. “You’ll spend a week there, jumping out of airplanes under every condition you can imagine. Then it’s off to Fort Bragg for an abbreviated session of Special Warfare School. I understand you’ve already improvised some guerilla combat techniques, but they’ll teach you how it’s really done.”
Lincoln was confused. “Don’t I have to try out? Pass some kind of test and a background check?”
“You’ve already tested in, Private. And passed your background check. There were some findings that were, let’s say, concerning, but like I said, Captain Franklin was pulling for you, and he’s got connections I don’t even have. I’ll be honest—I don’t like ignoring protocol this way. I feel like if rules have been established about these things, it’s probably for good reason, and we ought to follow them.
“But the truth is that we’re going to need good Special Forces operatives faster than the school can turn them out. Every indication is that we’ll be in Vietnam for a while. The president sees Southeast Asia as a tipping point. If it falls to the commies, then we’ve lost Asia altogether. And he doesn’t want that to be his legacy.”
Lincoln knew that President Johnson had passed civil rights legislation, but he had thought it mostly applied to black folks like himself. He hadn’t given much thought to the president’s relationship with Asians, and he wasn’t sure Johnson had, either. “So now he’s concerned about the yellow man?” Lincoln asked.
“I can’t say for sure what’s driving him,” Giunta answered. “He’s a politician, so I’d guess he’s worried about being reelected, like the rest of them are. All I know is that we’re going to be committing more Special Forces to the region for the indefinite future.”
Lincoln wondered how in-depth the background check had been. His mother had abandoned him when he was two, and he’d been raised at Saint Michelle’s Home for Colored Boys until he was thirteen, when the city had decided that foster families were a better way to bring up orphans. Little black kids always seemed to be the last to be fostered, and he had occasionally doubted that he would ever have a family until Sammy and Perla Robinson had taken him in.
He had been in trouble with Father James at the orphanage now and again—fights, the occasional theft, drinking, a little pot. He’d been big for his age even then, and small kids weren’t the only ones bullied and picked on. And there was the fact that he was a black kid, growing up in the 1950s American South. Using the wrong water fountain or trying to swim in the wrong pool could earn a kid a beating, or worse. Father James had protected his charges from that sort of abuse, as much as he could, but he wasn’t always around when Lincoln was tearing about the city.
And even the most cursory background check would have revealed Sammy’s history. He came across as a successful businessman, but one didn’t have to dig very deep to see that much of what he earned came from running numbers, selling dope, pimping, and worse. Franklin’s contacts must have been impressive, indeed, to make the authorities overlook Lincoln’s role in those enterprises.
“So, what’s my security clearance?” he asked.
Giunta grimaced a little but tried to hide it. “Top Secret,” he said. “That’s standard for Green Berets.” He shifted in his seat, turning to face Lincoln. “Tom Franklin put his ass on the line for you, Clay. So did I, for that matter, by backing Tom up. I trust his judgment, and if he thinks you’re fit to wear the beret, then so do I. But I need to know you’ll honor it—honor the trust Tom and I put in you, and that the nation will put in you. We’ve got about twenty more hours before we land at Fort Benning, so you don’t need to answer me right now. But by the time we touch down, I’ll want to know if you’re in or not. If not . . . well, there’s always another plane heading back to ’Nam.”
He left Lincoln sitting alone and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft. The plane was largely empty—Lincoln had the impression this wasn’t a regularly scheduled flight, rather something that had been put together for his benefit. A few other GIs were scattered around, most lost in their own thoughts but some engaged in quiet card games or conversation. There
wasn’t much else to do except sit, listen to the roar of the propellers, and think.
Truth be told, although he didn’t mind thinking, he thought doing too much of it was overrated at best and maybe harmful. Instead, he moved around in his seat until he was as comfortable as he could get, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
• • •
The evening air on the tarmac at Lawson Army Airfield was heavy and damp and smelled of diesel and exhaust. Lincoln was used to humidity; it was a staple of New Bordeaux summers, and Vietnam was more of the same. Despite the heat, he was hardly sweating as he walked toward the waiting trucks with his duffel bag in his hand.
Colonel Giunta strode up beside him. “What’s it going to be, Lincoln?” he asked. “There’s a Jeep over there that’ll take you to your barracks, if you’re staying. If not, there’s a plane sitting on the tarmac waiting to take off. Your call.”
“I’ll stay,” Lincoln said. “Might as well, right?”
“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.”
“I mean, the food here’s got to be better than the C rations I get back there.”
“You should spend some time in Saigon,” Giunta said. “The French taught those people how to cook. You can get some delicious Vietnamese food, and their French restaurants are as good as any in the world.”
“I’ll get there one of these days, Colonel. For now, I think I’d rather be where the action is.”
Giunta looked at him searchingly. Lincoln got the feeling he was waiting for something else—maybe some sort of declaration of patriotic altruism. But he’d gotten all Lincoln was going to give him, and he’d have to be satisfied with it. Giunta seemed to figure that out after a moment, because he gave a little half-shrug and turned away.
“Trust me,” he said, leading Lincoln toward a waiting Jeep. A soldier sat behind the wheel, one arm dangling casually outside. “You’ll definitely see some action after you earn your beret. Maybe more than you’re banking on.”
And Lincoln wondered, not for the first time, just what he was getting himself into.
3
* * *
Jump school was pure hell.
Despite Father James and the sisters at the orphanage, Lincoln mostly made his own way on the streets of New Bordeaux during his childhood. Physical exertion and punishment weren’t new to him, but this was punishment on a different level. It was compounded by the fact that he had to squeeze a three-week course into a week, which meant that when others in the morning session got to use the afternoon to recover, Lincoln had to attend another session. After that, he got an hour for dinner and “recuperation,” then another four hours of individual instruction from the jumpmaster. He spent the first few days learning the principles of jumping from airplanes and performing practice jumps—seemingly hundreds of them—from platforms of varying heights. Once he had demonstrated that he knew how to pack a parachute, how to land, how to roll, and how to disentangle himself, he started going up in planes for the real thing.
His first jump was at the comparatively low altitude of 1,500 feet, barely allowing enough time for the chute to open—but plenty of time to worry about what would happen if it didn’t. He survived, so the jumps became higher and more challenging—he was weighted down with ever more gear, and he had to jump at night and into forests, swamps, mountainsides, and other difficult terrain.
Despite his doubts, he lived through it all and was declared a paratrooper. Then he was flown to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for the next step in his sudden advancement: three classes offered at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School. He had most of a day off between landing at Bragg and starting school, and he had arranged for Sammy and Ellis to travel up from New Bordeaux for the occasion.
The men were escorted to the barracks Lincoln would occupy for the duration of his training. The building was empty but for Lincoln. Dust motes danced in sunlight slanting in through the windows, and despite regular cleaning, the air was thick with the smell of sweat from men who worked hard, then slept in hot, humid conditions.
Lincoln rose from his bunk when he saw his father and brother enter. The first thing Sammy did was hold out his arms and wait for Lincoln to come into them. After a long embrace, the old man backed off, patted Lincoln’s upper arms, and said, “You’re looking good. Strong.”
“I think I’m just shorter. All the jumping I’ve done the last few days has compressed me by at least three inches.”
“He’s right, Lincoln,” Ellis said. “You do look different.”
Lincoln hadn’t really noticed the changes, but looking at Ellis now, he realized his face was leaner than it had been back home, his stomach flatter, more cut.
“Guess it’s all that shitty food,” Lincoln said with a laugh. “I tell you, there’s no food like New Bordeaux food. I haven’t had dirty beans and rice or a po’boy in months.”
“They said we could take you out,” Sammy said. “Fayetteville’s no New Bordeaux, but they got to have some decent restaurants, n’est-ce pas?”
“You’ve always been able to pick ’em, old man,” Lincoln said. “I’ll follow your nose.” He turned to Ellis. “How you doin’, man? You got a girlfriend yet?”
“So many I can’t keep their names straight,” Ellis shot back.
“Any keepers?”
Ellis shrugged. “You know, just chicks from the Hollow.”
“Man, if it’s left up to Ellis,” Sammy said, “I’ll never be a grand-père. That’s another reason you got to hurry home from this war, Lincoln.”
“One of these days, brother,” Lincoln said. “One of these days, you’ll meet the right girl.”
“With any luck,” Sammy added, “she’ll be blind.”
Ellis’s jaw dropped open and he started to frame a retort, but Lincoln burst into laughter that precluded any response. “Come on,” Sammy said. “We got to find us some sustenance. Growing boys got to eat, non?”
• • •
“Business is okay,” Sammy said after the dinner dishes had been cleared and drinks poured. “Same ol’, same ol’, you know?”
“Business is in the shitter,” Ellis countered.
“Hush, you!” Sammy snapped.
“No. Why you want to hide the truth from Lincoln? He’s a part of this family; he ought to know the real deal.”
“Lincoln has bigger things to worry about.” Sammy sipped his brandy, made a face, drank some more. When he put his glass down, he said, “Boy’s going to be a hero.”
“I don’t know if there are any heroes in this war,” Lincoln said. “Not me, anyway.” He fixed Ellis with a steady gaze. “What’s going on at home?”
“Lot of heat from the Haitians,” Ellis said. “Feels like they’re thinkin’ about makin’ a play for some of our turf.”
Sammy wagged a finger at him. “Now, you know we put that down, Ellis. Don’t be telling tales out of school.”
“Put it down for now,” Ellis admitted. “But for how long? Seems to me when it takes a show of force to get someone to back off, eventually they forget what you showed ’em and they come back for more. Plus the Dixie Mafia’s been making noises about expansion, too.”
“Turf wars are always gonna happen,” Lincoln said. “That’s all Vietnam is, really. A turf war, just on a bigger scale.”
“I don’t want you to worry about us, Lincoln,” Sammy said, banging his brandy snifter on the table for emphasis. “You got to have a clear head out there. We’re fine, really.”
Ellis made a scoffing noise, but a glare from Sammy silenced him. Lincoln didn’t like it. Sammy had always been straight with him, whether the news was good or bad. There had been plenty of the latter, from Perla’s death to the ins and outs of the family “business.”
He had never tried to hide the nature of that business from Lincoln, or apologize for it. Yes, he admitted, he was a crime boss. But the reasons for that were complex, and mostly beyond his control. In the American South in which Sammy had grown up, opp
ortunities for men of color had been limited at best. He could have toiled at a menial blue-collar job like a janitor or garbage man, or worked in some white farmer’s fields, or he could have joined the crew of a fishing boat.
But Sammy had been born just more than a half century removed from slavery, and his own father had been a sharecropper. He wasn’t interested in an occupation that smacked of that evil institution in any way. The occupations whites had decided were good enough for the descendants of slaves were meant, he believed, to keep black men in their “proper” place and to limit economic advancement and the choices that came with it—choices like where to live and with whom to associate.
Sammy didn’t want to be limited in those ways. He wanted to take what he could, and if it meant breaking the white man’s laws, that was a bonus as far as he was concerned. So he had turned his back on those “acceptable” professions and instead used his wits and his cunning and an occasional ruthless streak to make his own way in the world. Now he was one of the wealthiest black men in New Bordeaux, with legitimate businesses—like Perla’s Nightclub, the jazz club he owned in the Delray Hollow district—that he ran alongside his illegal ones.
Lincoln remembered the first time Sammy had explained these things to him, with a solemnity resembling that with which Lincoln had heard some parents explained the mysteries of sex. He had taken Lincoln into his study and sat him down in a chair that dwarfed the boy, and he’d explained that there were activities, like lotteries, that were frowned upon by white society, even though when nobody was looking just as many white folks were drawn to them as black folks. The Robinson family fortune had, Sammy explained, been made by catering to those desires. He was quick to stress that there was nothing wrong with that. “We don’t have anything to do with products that hurt our own,” he’d said. “Putting down a dollar in hopes of making a thousand, well, that’s not gonna deprive a family of a roof over their head or food on the table. Might just put more food on the table, in fact, and patch some holes in that roof in the bargain. Some men got the urge to gamble; some got the urge to cat around. As long as none of our own folks are getting hurt, we help them enjoy those things they’re gonna do anyway.”
Mafia III Page 2
