The Point Team

by J. B. Hadley

  “All right, you men,” Mike said in tones of this-is-the-colonel-speaking, “get this and get it straight. We go into training in five days’ time. You will be informed of your mobilization area twenty-four hours in advance. You will be given a phone number to call if you want to drop out between now and then, but once in training you’re stuck for the duration of the mission. I repeat. Once in, no outs. No communications. No nothing. You’ve gone. Clear? Now, I’m a nice guy and I don’t want to have to see you suffer, so I’m telling you now to start running. If you can run ten miles without throwing up by five days’ time, training won’t go so hard with you. Because you’ll be running twice that distance in ten days’ time. This is not going to be a golf-cart war, so if any of you old-timers can’t hack it, do us all a favor and quit now. Any questions?”

  “Where do we go for training?” Bob asked.

  “Location G.”

  That was the end of the question period.

  As they drove back to New York, Andre asked Mike, “Where is Location G?”

  “Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean I’m going to have to take them jogging around Central Park reservoir?”

  Mike laughed. “I think I’ll be able to come up with something better than that. After all, I’ve got five days. What are you angling for, Andre? Second-in-command?”

  “I should think so, considering I’m the only other sane person besides you on this mission. Not forgetting, of course, that you’re Mad Mike.”

  Chapter 13

  THE two southerners, both from the Mekong Delta, were awed by their visitor. Their agency was not one of the favored ones in the Ho Chi Minh City bureaucracy, as evidenced by the upturned wooden crates they used as desks and the single light bulb that provided illumination in that sectioned-off area of the warehouse. The younger of the two southerners still hoped to use influence to get transferred out of the Commission for International Media Goodwill. The fact was this government bureau had nothing to do; the international media were not allowed into Vietnam and goodwill was the last thing anyone was expected to show them. The older man, the commissioner, knew that for better or worse this was where he would have to either sink or swim in the new freedom of the communist state.

  The visitor, totally unexpected, was reputed to have been one of General Giap’s most important intelligence administrators during the war of liberation against the American imperialists and their puppets. In many ways he looked like Mahatma Gandhi—thin, ageless, ascetic, wire spectacles, but with a shock of virile, Asiatic black hair instead of a bald pate.

  Both the southerners knew this Hanoi visitor was much more dangerous than a party functionary they could flatter, fawn before and perhaps even bribe. This man was an idealist. Useful in times of war but a nuisance during peace. Many of his kind had already been jailed by the new leadership—but they could not touch the legends. With Ho Chi Minh safely in his grave, they had deposed Giap out of necessity but let the other heroes stand.

  The younger of the two southerners had obviously decided not to utter a word under any circumstances during this meeting. There were worse survival ploys, the older of the two acknowledged to himself, but he was obviously not to be allowed to take refuge in blessed silence.

  “You have granted a license for the return of this American woman Nelson and her television crew?”

  “Only after clearing it through the appropriate channels. The Commission of—”

  “Yes, I know,” the man from Hanoi said. “But yours is the signature permitting this woman to enter the country.”

  The southerner paused. “I recognize I have undertaken a heavy responsibility and that I am ill-fitted to do so. Any advice from an illustrious person such as you would be very welcome.”

  “May we dispense with the courtesies?”

  “You are too kind in your offer,” the southerner responded, becoming even more formal and rigid than before.

  The man from Hanoi twisted his old dry hard mouth and pointed a bony finger. “Your name is on the permit for this woman and her crew.”

  “A formality. That is all. I sign the papers. You people in Hanoi give the orders.” All his formality was gone; he might have been bargaining in the market. “You know as well as I do that I didn’t make this decision. I don’t have the power to! She’s not here yet! Let’s cancel it! That’s what I’ll do! Cancel it! Null! Void!”

  “You don’t have the power to cancel it,” the man from Hanoi said, like someone making a seemingly innocuous chess move that somehow seems vital to an unseen deadly attack.

  “Both of you speak English very well.” This was a statement of fact from the man from Hanoi. “You both will be held responsible for the success to communism of this imperialist woman. She can be guided to see the positive aspects of our society. That was done on her first visit here, with which you were not involved. Have you seen the videotapes of her American special?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  The southerner did not hesitate. He had heard the correct responses a hundred times. “She showed little understanding of our socialist way of life, but also no animosity. She did not show unfavorable footage or make vindictive commentary. While she showed nothing new for an audience here or in another communist country, she did show imperialists that we are human beings who cherish the right to work and real freedom in terms that their corrupted minds could understand.”

  “Word perfect,” the man from Hanoi commented drily. “On her second visit we have a slightly different purpose in mind. Listen carefully to what I have to say.” He told them quickly about Eric Vanderhoven’s theft of the TV equipment and of his subsequent discovery and dispatch to a reeducation camp. He said nothing of the tapes made of Russian ships. “The interesting thing is that neither she nor we associated this youth with the robber baron of that name in America, although it was on record that his father had married a Vietnamese woman. We only realized it when the grandfather tried to have him released first by threats from Washington and, when those failed, by diplomatic maneuvers through the Swiss. We have said nothing and waited for this to be publicized in America. They kept it quiet. Now this woman Nelson comes here to film this youth in the reeducation camp in order to cause a cheap sensation in America and make a lot of money for her employers. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “We will permit her to do this. Why, I will discuss in a minute. It is important that she does not learn this, that she thinks she is gaining access to the camp through stealth. Her guides will find themselves outwitted by her tricks. The cadres at the camp should know, but no one else there, particularly not the boy himself. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are we doing this? You should know, in order to control things properly. We must have access to world markets, and American dollars, not Russian rubles, are the means of exchange. When the Americans see the grandson of a man with a billion dollars stooping at work in one of our rice fields, they will pay anything to rescue him. Rich people are sacred in America, like cows in India—people get upset when they imagine they are being mistreated. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Americans are very strange people,” the man from Hanoi counseled him. “You have seen them with your own eyes while they were here. They are in a hurry. They want impossible things. But we have learned one thing from our Buddhist ancestors—those who cannot wait never win.”

  “We can wait.”

  “We have waited long enough,” the man from Hanoi contradicted him. “We have allowed a trickle of children out of the country and stories of American prisoners. This will focus the problem. And, as you know, Americans solve problems with money.”

  “My responsibility will be to see that she gets to make the film without us seeming to permit it, that the boy is well treated from now—”

  “No! The little mongrel must not be pampered.”

  “I’ll do my very best.”


  “I hope so,” the man from Hanoi said, “especially since you were the one to sign the Nelson woman’s entry permit.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Campbell.” William Vanderhoven gestured to a chair by his desk. “Bear with me for a few minutes while I attempt to untangle some knots in my business day.”

  New York Stock Exchange results floated from right to left across one CRT display to the right of his desk. On a second CRT, certain stock readings were being frozen in place momentarily, interrupted by graphs, shown again and finally replaced with new ones, for which the process was repeated.

  Vanderhoven picked up one of the phones and punched some numbers. “John, what the devil are you trying to tell me?” He listened for a while, then said, “Run that past me again.” After watching the material once more on the CRT, he said, “It’s worth a try. See what you can do.”

  A pretty woman in her early thirties stood in his open office doorway waiting for him to finish. “You see the performance of Pequod Data?” she asked.

  “Jumping up and down like a yo-yo.”

  “We could make a lot of money with a straddle… . Even I could do that.”

  Vanderhoven looked at the pretty girl. “Go ahead, then, take two hundred and play with it.”

  “Me? Oh, I couldn’t.” She giggled and fled.

  “Emily,” Vanderhoven called after her, but she didn’t come back.

  Campbell assumed that the two hundred the old man told her to take amounted to two hundred thousand dollars and that Emily had lost her nerve at the prospect, temporarily anyway. Or she might be aware that had she lost some of the money, the old man’s countenance might not be so sunny and her prospects in the business grow very dim.

  A lean man in his fifties poked his head in the door. “We’re doing good, Mr. V.”

  “Give me a number.”

  The man gave him a number and disappeared.

  “You better talk while you have the chance, Campbell.”

  Mike looked at two buttons lit on the phones and a third blinking. “I’m here to talk about Location G.”

  “What?”

  He had the old man’s attention. “That island you own on the South Carolina coast between Charleston and Georgetown. I’ll need it all next week.”

  “You got it,” Vanderhoven said. “It’s not that far north of Parris Island, where the Marines train. I assume you have something similar in mind.”

  “I have. I’d also like to use your Gulfstream Commander Jetprop to drop us off and pick us up.”

  “You’re limited to seven passengers and fourteen hundred pounds of baggage,” Vanderhoven said.

  “That will do fine.”

  “Anything else of mine you got your eye on?”

  Mike grinned. “I’ll let you know.”

  Vanderhoven waved his arms about him. “Think you’d like this kind of life, Campbell?”

  “Can’t be certain, but I doubt it.”

  “You can have a lot of fun doing what I do, even an old guy like me. I wield a lot of power over a lot of people.”

  “I’m more interested in gaining power over myself,” Mike said seriously. “Seeing what I as an individual am capable of firsthand. I guess I don’t get a charge out of doing things through other people.”

  “Some people call me ruthless, Campbell, but I’m not sure I could pull the trigger to give someone a bellyful of lead.”

  “I think you would, sir, if you thought he was on the point of doing the same thing to you.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. I don’t know,” Vanderhoven mumbled.

  Mike did not mention that judging from what he had heard of Vanderhoven, getting a bellyful of lead would be a quick death compared with the mortal wounds he had administered in the financial world. He had once been known to boast that not a year had passed in his business life without a failed rival taking a walk out a high window.

  “All set with Katie Nelson and her TV people?” Vanderhoven inquired.

  “No problems.”

  “I told you before, she’s got nothing in writing from me. I don’t give a damn how you treat her.”

  “I’ll cooperate with her fully so long as everything’s on the level,” Mike said.

  “That’s your business, Campbell. Look, I deal with percentages here. What are your chances of success? Give me a number.”

  “Why? Are you opening a betting operation on us?”

  “I’m investing two million in you,” Vanderhoven replied. “What are my chances of seeing that kid in this office?”

  “Not great.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Vanderhoven waved his hands about the screens and equipment. “You think Eric will like all this computer stuff? Sure. Any kid would.”

  Chapter 14

  MIKE Campbell took an early morning flight from New York to Atlanta and changed there for the connecting flight to Mobile, Alabama. Cuthbert Colquitt was expecting him in Mobile, and Mike hoped to finish his business there quickly, catch a flight to New Orleans and another from there to Phoenix. This would give him a couple of days with Tina before heading for training on Vanderhoven’s island. Andre Verdoux, now ensconced as second-in-command, was handling everything from New York, where they would mobilize before going into training.

  Mike had dealt with Cuthbert Colquitt many times before, and there could be no doubt in the arms dealer’s mind why a well-known mere such as Campbell was paying him a visit. A dependable source of arms was essential to any military operation, mercenary or otherwise, yet at the same time it represented one of its greatest security risks. It was through arms dealers that word often leaked about upcoming mercenary operations. On this point Mike was certain: Cuthbert Colquitt was silent as the grave.

  If Mike could, he would delay the pickup of their arms till the last possible moment. For overseas operations, he liked his crew to arrive in the area without carrying incriminating evidence on them. After arriving they would have a chance to review the local situation before taking delivery of their arms supply. Possession of military-grade weapons by soldiers of fortune seized by government authorities was usually equivalent to automatic guilt on the part of the mercenaries. If the team was not holding explosives or guns, little more than vague charges of conspiracy could be leveled against them, which at the worst might result in their being deported. However, once a mere picked up a gun, he was in water way over his head.

  Despite the popular concept of a merc team arriving in the dead of night in inflatable rafts with camouflage nets and blackened faces, laden with rockets and small artillery, Campbell usually arranged for his crew to enter a country in business suits or as tourists and to travel by scheduled flight or whatever was normal. He was convinced that this was by far the most inconspicuous mode of entry into a heavily populated area. Entering into remote or isolated regions obviously posed different problems.

  The pickup of weapons created a point of vulnerability for the team. Availability of the latest technology was no problem, even in relatively primitive parts of the world. The latest arms designs were available anywhere in the free world to those with the cash to pay for them. Through Cuthbert Colquitt in Mobile, Alabama, Mike could order just about anything for delivery just about anywhere outside China, Russia and most other communist countries. Easy as telegraphing flowers on Mother’s Day.

  From the Mobile Aerospace, he took a taxi out to the edge of town. The office and warehouse of Colquitt Armaments, Inc., were in an industrial park with clusters of azaleas in several shades of red, orderly flower beds and busy lawn sprinklers. Inside the plate glass double doors a truly exotic creature, whose long graceful legs sprang from a narrow skirt, was adjusting an eyelash before a pocket mirror.

  “Where’s Mary Lou?” Mike asked.

  “Gawn. She had a fight with Cuthbert, I guess. I’m Sue Ann.”

  As a newer model of weapon with added features renders another model obsolete, Mike guessed Sue Ann had been added to Cuthbert Colquitt’s arsenal. However, as Mike soon saw, Cuthbert hims
elf remained unchanged. He launched his huge bulk out of his desk chair to greet Mike, shook his hand with his great paw and beamed with loose red jowls and square white teeth clamped on a cigar.

  Colquitt removed the cigar with his left fist and said, “You workin’ for them Yankee carpetbaggers again, Mike, down here to rob us poor simple Confederate folk?”

  “The day I rob you, Cuthbert, is the day I decide to run for governor of Alabama.”

  “We’ve had worse than you running this state, Mike. Meaner, bigger, thicker-skinned. Could bite into live ’gators, some of ’em. But you ain’t come all this way to talk about local doings. Sit you down here now and have a glass of good bourbon to ease your troubles.”

  Colquitt poured out generous measures for both of them. Campbell guessed that somehow this was neither the first nor even the second drink Cuthbert had had this morning. He was just bursting out all over in good-ol’-boy joviality.

  “You have any problem with Thailand?” Mike asked after they had exchanged some pleasantries.

  “Hell no, boy, them Thais is just like cousins to me. I do business in Bangkok easy as I do in Montgomery, Alabama. A little easier, in fact.”

  “Great. So we’ll need six M16s—”

  “Mike, if you’re going where I think you might be going, you’ll have to carry all your ammo with you. You can’t pick up those 5.56-mm shells anymore like you could in the old days when you needed fresh ammunition.”

  “I thought a lot of the communist militias still use captured Ml6s and stuff we left behind.”

  “Up until a couple of years ago,” Colquitt said, “but not so much anymore. They’ve replaced most of the old weapons with new Kalashnikovs, and as you know, the Russians make those bullets 7.62- by 39-mm so they don’t fit no Western guns.”

  “So we should carry AK47s?” Campbell asked.

  “Sure. I can get you six of the latest model, the AKM—though folks still call it the AK47. It’s a lightened and slightly modified version with a stamped-steel receiver, a ribbed receiver cover and a cyclic rate reducer that is incorporated into the trigger mechanism. The bayonet is different—it won’t fit on the old AK47. It’s the sort you can use as a wirecutter against its scabbard.”