by Tom Wilson
"Is Nguyen Wu still shaming you?"
Xuan was startled. He opened his mouth to speak, then slowly closed it. "Li Binh and I are . . . friends," he finally explained, his voice low.
"When Nguyen Wu worked for you and plotted to place you in disfavor with the party, it was not right. It is also not right for him to shame you by rutting with your wife."
Xuan felt uneasy. "Perhaps we should speak of other matters," he said in his pained rasp.
"I learned much about Nguyen Wu. We were not friends, and I expected to be treated badly, but he did other things. His men had me write a confession that my revered mother was a common prostitute, and another that my son was . . . a traitor." Quon's voice caught.
"I must go."
"Stay for another moment, Xuan Nha. I have something to tell you."
Xuan did not want to hear. He despised and distrusted political matters, and regardless of what he might think of them, discussions of Li Binh or Nguyen Wu entailed high-level politics.
Quon nodded. "My son was dear to me, Xuan Nha. I wish I had shown him that before he was killed by the Mee."
"Yes," said Xuan. "You once told me." He knew he must not tell Quon that Nguyen Wu had engineered the killing of his son. Quon was bitter enough.
Quon sighed. "But you cannot know how I feel, for you have no son. I am a warrior like you. I have risked my life many times for the party and the Democratic Republic, and I will do it again. But I was not a good father. It is difficult to do both well, and I did not. When my son was killed, I was consumed by grief. Now I am consumed by shame, for I was forced to call my son a coward and traitor. I do not forgive. I do not forgive myself—and I do not forgive Nguyen Wu."
Xuan wished desperately that he'd not come to Quon's home.
"Perhaps with time . . ." he began, but Quon shook his head.
"I will never forget. Neither should you."
"Mine was . . . different."
"While you were in the hospital, your wife's nephew rutted with her in your own bed. I told you it was happening, remember? I told you because you were a fellow warrior and what was happening was not right."
Xuan Nha forced out a breath.
"Did you know that he boasted to all of Hanoi about making you the fool?"
Xuan bowed his head. He'd known.
"Do you forgive him, Xuan Nha?"
"She threw him out," Xuan croaked painfully.
"She invited him back into your bed one day last month, Xuan Nha, while you were working at your office."
"Nguyen Wu?" Surely it could not be true.
"I have resources, Xuan Nha. People who observe and speak to me. I have been briefed very thoroughly since I came home."
He kept his tongue.
"So you see, we both have shame to bear."
"I must go."
"One last thing. My son was greatly cherished by his grandfather, Le Duc Tho."
Xuan Nha hesitated. "Did you tell him about the confessions about his grandson?"
Quon shrugged, then winced from the pain in his warped shoulders. "Le Duc Tho knows many things," he said hoarsely. "If Li Binh were not so useful, he would have destroyed them both. She still shields her nephew from harm. Le Duc Tho has passed on his displeasure to the Commissioner of People's Safety, so Wu will be discredited, but it is not enough. Where do your loyalties lie, Xuan Nha?"
Xuan reflected for a moment. "I have no powerful father-in-law, Quon. I have only my own wiles, and as a military man they are not many."
Quon looked at him. "Someday, my friend, you will be called upon to take a stand."
1945L—Ta Khli Village, Thailand
GS-7 Penny Dwight
The threesome was downtown, eating sumptuous steaks at the new restaurant, sipping Singha beer and talking about inconsequential gossip. Penny finished her meal last and regarded the two pilots, who were deep in a discussion about Buster Leska and how he'd recently turned in the staff sedan driven by the previous commander and replaced it with a pickup.
"Why'd he do it?" Roger Hamlin asked.
"Because he wants every jock here to know he doesn't accept special privileges."
"Driving a pickup won't change anything. A commander ought to have a staff car."
"You think he's not different from other commanders?" Manny asked.
"He's okay," Roger admitted.
Manny leaned forward. "Guess what his latest change is?"
Roger didn't have to respond. Manny was in his talkative mood.
"Colonel's are no longer mission commanders."
"Huh?" Roger looked puzzled.
"Colonel Leska announced it this morning in our ops staff meeting. He started out by saying that he was no longer going to lead missions, because his reflexes aren't what they once were, and the guys need the very best out in front sizing up the situation and making decisions."
"I'll be damned."
"Yeah. Here's a guy who killed six MiGs, a real hero, and he's big enough to admit he's no longer the pilot some of the young guys are."
Roger was drinking more than normal, but he wasn't so intoxicated he didn't realize the importance of what was being said.
"Then Colonel Leska read off a new list of authorized mission leaders, and not a single full colonel was on it."
"How about Lucky Anderson?"
"All three squadron commanders made the list, but most of 'em on there were majors."
"I'll be damned," Roger Hamlin repeated. Then he raised an eyebrow. "How about you?'
Manny nodded. "I'm there, soon as I get my checkout."
Roger shook his head in wonder that a captain could be a mission commander.
Penny waved at a waiter. "I'd like coffee," she said. She was tipsy and becoming sleepy.
"You sure?" Manny asked. "The stuff they serve for coffee's pretty awful."
"I want something," she said. She was feeling the drinks. Penny had a low tolerance for alcohol. Tonight, though, she felt like celebrating.
Manny ordered hot tea for her and himself, and Roger asked for another Singha beer. Penny liked the way Manny took charge of a situation, as he'd done with the coffee—not overbearing about it, but very sure of himself. He's the one, she thought, observing him, intensely happy that they'd have to wait no longer. The bombing halt hadn't yet been announced, but she'd decided to stick with the schedule on her desk calendar—which she'd underlined about a hundred times. Tomorrow when Manny asked her out, as he did almost every day, Penny would tell him yes. Christmas night she'd offer her present.
Penny thought about him often, awoke each morning with him on her mind and went to bed wishing he were with her. If he just wasn't flying the combat missions, she thought.
Penny observed Manny as he spoke animatedly with Roger. His shoulders were wide and his chest powerful. She looked at his hands. They looked strong, but she was sure they could be gentle. In idle times she sometimes daydreamed about him, as she'd once done over . . . She tried to pull her thoughts back to the dinner, but was drawn back to the night with Dusty, and how wonderful it had been.
He was killed the next morning, a nasty thought interrupted. A coincidence, her mind replied. She'd convinced herself of that, but the thought sometimes recurred.
She observed Manny once more, and the tingling sensation returned to warm her. She drew a sharp breath, and when both men paused and turned to her, she smiled and acted as if there were nothing amiss. Roger gave her a knowing grin, because she'd told him about some of her feelings. When the men returned to their talking, the sensuous feeling quickly returned.
During the bus ride back to the base, Penny remained quiet, scarcely listening as the two young pilots spoke about some colonel they disliked who was visiting the base. Manny said he'd seen him coming out of the medical clinic with a worried look, and he was going to talk to Doc Rogers about it. He hoped the son of a bitch—excuse me, Penny—had something terminal.
She failed to get the colonel's name.
During a quiet period she p
ulled her eyes from Manny long enough to observe Roger. He'd had too much to drink. Penny was also tipsy, even after the hot tea. Manny held his drinks much better than either of them, she decided happily. Roger appeared increasingly sad and withdrawn as he stared out the window at the darkness.
"Something wrong?" she asked him.
Roger shrugged. "Just thinking of Christmas," he said. "How I'll be here, and my family's back in the States."
Penny felt for him. Roger adored his family, was always quick to whip out pictures of his wife and toddler son.
"How 'bout a drink at the club when we get back?" Roger asked, brightening. "I'll play a few tunes and pull myself out of this blue mood."
"Maybe one." Manny said he had to go to the comm center, because they were expecting a message from the States. The Christmas cease fire message, Penny thought through the thickening haze brought on by the alcohol.
"How 'bout you, Pen?" Roger asked. He looked tense. She wanted to go straight to her room, feeling tipsy as she was, but sometimes she could cheer Roger up when others couldn't.
"Okay," Penny said, then impulsively leaned over and kissed his cheek. "That's for worrying about your family like you do."
When she'd told Roger about her feelings regarding Manny, he'd approved, with the reservation that she watch after herself. Manny was like Dusty Fields, he said. A confirmed bachelor. Tonight she just might even have one more drink, to celebrate her new beginning. Show Roger support in his troubled time and have a last little fling before claiming her man, and finding out more about the guy who called himself the Supersonic Wetback.
Takhli Officers' Club
Colonel Tom Lyons
Tom wasn't happy. He'd been on base all day and had largely been ignored, despite his position on the IG team. He'd dropped in on Yank Donovan in the morning, and even received a cool reception there. The guy he was relying on to give him the scoop about what the people at Takhli were up to, how they might be cheating or sending information to Seventh Air Force about something called JACKPOT, had been nonresponsive when he'd quizzed him about what was really going on. When Tom had intimated that he could bring up certain unsavory facts about his background that were sure to ruin a squadron commander's career, Donovan had stared at him rudely, and Tom realized he was wasting his time, as he'd done at Ubon and Udorn.
It was not a great day for Lyons, and it was made worse by the visit to the Takhli clinic, and the flight surgeon who'd given him embarrassing advice and medication for his drippy dick.
General Roman's secretary hadn't been at all what he'd expected. After a lusty and uninhibited encounter in the hotel room, he'd grown suspicious and made some phone calls, and found that her husband had booted her out a month earlier for screwing around with every senior officer who'd give her a tumble. The bitch, he now railed inwardly, hadn't told him that one of her encounters had passed on a juicy dose of the clap.
He planned to proceed to Korat the next morning, which would complete his tour of the Thailand bases. Then he'd return to South Vietnam, visit Seventh Air Force Headquarters and a few of the bases there with unannounced, impromptu inspections. Thus far he'd heard nothing at all regarding the JACKPOT project, and hadn't even been able to dig up new dirt on how the "fucking cowboys"—he liked Romans term—were cheating in the combat theater.
He finished with the typically lousy meal they served at the Takhli club, and sipped at a cup of lukewarm coffee the stupid Thai waitress had been slow in bringing. It was enough to make a more common man turn to drink, he thought.
He watched as Captain Manny DeVera opened the door for a young woman and an obviously intoxicated fellow carrying an old guitar case. He remembered the girl from his visit to the wing commander's office.
He despised DeVera, had done so since they'd met several years earlier and he'd refused to cooperate when Lyons's ass had been on the line in an accident investigation. He'd tried to get even when he found him here at Takhli, but his efforts had backfired. Shouldn't let spicks in the Air Force, he grumbled to himself, and they sure as hell shouldn't let them become officers.
A few minutes later he watched DeVera come back into the dining room and make his way toward the door. Their eyes locked, and the swarthy captain let a smile grow on his face. Impudent bastard, Lyons thought. A few months before, there'd been an incident over a female, here at Takhli. When he'd tried to teach the Peace Corps bitch a lesson about how she shouldn't fuck around, the Spick had jumped him—from his blind side, of course—and had refused to stop pounding on him until he'd promised never to do it again. It had been a demeaning and outrageous experience. Hatred smoldered hot within Tom Lyons's chest.
After paying, Tom decided on an after-dinner drink before retiring to his guest trailer. As he entered the gentleman's bar, he heard music and glanced left, toward the small stage. The young, intoxicated man he'd seen earlier was hunched over a gaudy orange guitar, chording a tune in rough harmony with a fellow who picked wildly at a banjo.
"Yeah!" a captain yelled as the crowd of a dozen clapped in cadence.
Primitive, he thought. Tom was about to pass through to the stag bar when he noticed the secretary sitting alone at a nearby table, sipping cognac and staring at the musicians.
He surveyed the girl closely as he ordered a gin and tonic from the bar, then approached her with a smile. "Mind if I have a seat?" he asked. She observed him with a tipsy expression, but her eyes brightened as she noted his colonel's rank. "Sure," she said, slurring the word. The ladies felt safe around senior officers.
Tom Lyons introduced himself pleasantly and learned that her name was Penny. He regarded the musicians seated on the edge of the small stage, surrounded by a small but growing crowd. They began a lively song, this one about the Doumer Bridge.
"They're very good," he lied. He thought they were atrocious.
She took a swallow of cognac and peered at the stage, but had difficulty focusing.
"Your boyfriend?" he asked, indicating the guitar player.
"Nope," she said. She gave him a secretive look. "Do you know Captain Manny DeVera?"
"The captain and I go back a long way," he said smoothly.
She sipped the last of her drink, making a face at the taste. "I've been celebrating," she slurred. She giggled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm in love."
"How about something tastier?" he asked, giving her his friendliest smile.
"I better be goin'," she said. "Gettin' awful sleepy."
"Don't worry, I'll make sure you get to your trailer safe and sound." Tom went to the bar and ordered a double Black Russian—vodka and Kahlúa—and took it to the table.
"Try that," Tom said, placing the drink before her and wondering at his fortune. Maybe things weren't so bad after all.
Twenty minutes later, as the guitar player was beginning a sad ballad, he led the girl toward the entrance.
She had trouble remembering her trailer number. When she finally did, he had to support her most of the way there, then fish through her purse to find her key.
GS-7 Penny Dwight
A rushing, gurgling sound filtered through Penny's stupor. The toilet? She groaned and turned, then awoke just enough to notice a light coming from her bathroom doorway.
"Nggghh," she grunted, for a savage headache throbbed relentlessly. She closed her eyes to shut out the light, her head pounding so wildly she felt nauseous. Penny heard water sounds and slowly became alert. Who? she wondered, but nothing in her memory was registering.
"You finally awake?" The voice sounded disgusted.
Penny blinked and peered. A man's shape was silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, looking down on her. He wore no clothing, and Penny realized that she was sprawled across her rumpled bed and also naked. The top sheet and blanket had been pulled onto the floor.
"Manny," she tried hopefully. The man moved closer and uttered a small laugh.
Penny pulled back, placing an arm over her breasts. "Who are you?" she asked.
"
I'm the guy who just fucked your brains out."
She was sore down there, and very confused.
He knelt closer. She tried to move away, but he grasped her arm and held her firmly in place. "My name's Tom Lyons. I want you to tell that to DeVera. Tell him Colonel Tom Lyons fucked his girl."
Penny was so frightened she scarcely dared to breathe. "Please go," she said in a thick, quavering voice.
"You invited me, don't you remember? You invited me in and asked me to fuck you."
She shook her head, knowing she wouldn't do that regardless of how much she'd drunk.
"I've had better pieces of ass. You just laid there acting like you wanted to puke."
Her breasts were sore. Had he done that too? "Please leave," she tried.
"Not yet. This time I want you to remember, so you can tell the spick."
His words weren't registering in her muddled brain.
"Will you remember?"
"Yes. Now please go."
He pulled her protective arm away with one hand and roughly felt her breasts, first one, then the other, making them hurt. She tried to twist away. "Go away!"
He slapped her face—she recoiled in surprise.
"Keep your voice down," he hissed, kneading her breasts harshly. Each time he squeezed, fiery pain shot through her like a jolt of electricity.
"Oh, God. Please go."
"Not yet." His breath was coming faster and he was becoming excited.
"Stop!" Penny cried.
He issued an angry, guttural sound as she tried to pull away again, then grasped an arm tightly about her, holding her in place as he continued to knead her breasts.
"Stop!" she wailed, hoping someone might hear.
He slapped her more violently. "Quiet."
"Please," she sobbed.
She sucked a breath as the hand moved to her abdomen.
"Please." She gasped as he shoved fingers into her. She was wet, but not from arousal. Her eyes had adjusted, and as he knelt lower, she could see his erection. As he continued delving into her crotch with the rough hand, she moaned.
"Like that, huh?"
"It hurts!"
He lowered himself and pushed, missed, then roughly shoved her legs apart and tried again. She grunted with surprise as he entered, again as he shoved deep.
