Red Flags

by Juris Jurjevics

  "Does the come-on work?"

  "Sorta. But whaddya know, a lot of 'em just treat rehab like a paid vacation. They kick back, fatten up, buy new weapons downtown with their bonus money, and go right back out to Jungle World. The psy ops ladies don't wise up. Them fools keep sendin' us these heavy-ass radios, give us orders to scatter 'em along the infiltration routes. They want we should haul all this extra weight and risk our necks playin' Santa Claus so's Charlie can catch some gook soul tunes and the Sacred Sword of Patriotism bullshit broadcasts outta Saigon."

  "I can see where you might be annoyed."

  "Definitely. So we do a little rewiring. Reconfigure the receivers and deliver them trailside, as ordered. Includin' the flier."

  He held one up and translated. "‘This radio will bring you knowledge and relaxing entertainment.'" Grady laughed to himself. "You know what those psy ops goops call their program? Winning Hearts and Minds. WHAM for short."

  I hefted a set. Grady grabbed my wrist. "I wouldn't."

  He opened the back. Two wires ran out of the C-4 packed in the battery space and around the speaker to the on/off switch.

  "The gook finds it, puts it to his ear, and turns it on—it's good night, Chuck."

  "Sweet Jesus."

  "We call our thing WHAMO! Winning Hearts and Minds of—" Sergeant Grady beamed. "Whaddya think?"

  "I think you have a very black sense of humor."

  "Very black!" Grady giggled. "Yo."

  "You blow my mind," I said, and he actually hooted.

  "What a blast!" he said and shrieked with laughter, his eyes tearing.

  It wasn't that funny but I couldn't help joining in. It was infectious. I was nearly howling when I realized I was staring at one-kilo packets wrapped in paper and plastic wound with tape.

  "What's this?"

  "That?" The timbre of his voice slowly changed. "Shit. You shouldn't be seein' that."

  "Sarge, this looks like heroin."

  "Don't it just."

  "Refined?"

  "Yup. Nearly pure, man. Twenty kilos of Laos Gold."

  I admired the logo on the wrapper. "Where the hell did you get a load of refined heroin out here?"

  Grady grinned. "From the sky. Swear to God. The shit floated down on top of us. Nearly bagged one of our strikers."

  "Where?"

  "Northwest. We and some of our Yards chased an NVA patrol way out of our normal tac area. We were in an open stretch. A transport plane appeared overhead—Vietnamese air force—and down came this bundle. Manna from heaven. Must have mistaken us for whoever was waiting for the delivery."

  "What are you going to do with it?"

  "Donate it to the Yards to cache with their guns and money. Sort of a nest egg." He picked up a brick and hefted it. "Wish I knew what it was worth."

  "In Saigon a kilo like this goes for two grand. Maybe two and a half."

  "Jeez. Twenty kilos ... forty thousand dollars."

  "In San Francisco it's ten times that."

  Grady looked at me oddly. "How is it you know?"

  "I'd move it now, if I were you. They won't be able to do it without you. Besides, you don't want to keep it in the ground. It won't age like wine."

  "I hear ya," Grady said. "If you could forget you saw this, Di Uy, I'd owe you large."

  "Saw what?" I said.

  Grady smiled. He showed me to a spare bunk in the team house and I collapsed for a couple of hours. When I came to, the camp was quiet under a quarter moon. I stripped off my shirt and boots, got fatigues and floppies, slung my weapon on, took my towel and soap, and made my way toward the water tower. Suspended beneath it, a tank fed by a well served up shower water. A wooden grating made from cargo pallets is what you stood on. A skimpy bamboo half wall passed for the bathhouse.

  The shower worked beautifully. I let the water deluge me as I stared up at the stars. I hadn't felt as clean or peaceful since I'd arrived. I felt lighter than I had in years. When I'd used up more than a generous amount, I put on fatigue pants and floppies, slung my rifle over my shoulder, and climbed up to the highest point in camp. It was a beautiful night. Half a joint lay abandoned on a sandbag, crimped by a matchbook. I ducked down to shield the light, struck a match, and lit up. Dope cured in opium. I cupped the burning end and inhaled deeply. World class.

  Checkman appeared next to me as I stood up.

  "You're keeping late hours," I said. He leaned against the sandbags, facing me, his back to the camp, his eyes not yet adjusted to the dark.

  "The guys on radio watch woke me. First they were listening to their favorite disc jockey playing rock on Pathet Lao Radio. Then they got into making their own music."

  Down below, someone strummed a ukulele and softly sang a barracks ballad: "‘My mother's a Montagnard princess. My father's an LLDB / And every night around midnight / They turn into hard-core VC.'"

  Checkman massaged his neck. "But what really woke me was I dreamed VC were breeching the perimeter wire and swinging open the gate."

  "Here." I handed Checkman the smoldering joint.

  "Really?"

  "It's an order."

  Two tokes and his eyes pinwheeled. "Wow."

  Two figures in black VC pajamas made their way down to the shower point and disrobed. The Special Forces guys liked to sleep in peasants' black garb so they'd already be dressed in the event of an attack. They also didn't want to have on uniforms that would identify them in the dark as Americans.

  Checkman slumped against the sandbags and slid to the floor. Down at the showers the two doused themselves and lathered their heads. Then each other. I exhaled the dope slowly, staring. It was a man and a woman. The woman had long spiraling curls. She turned her back to the guy and reached behind her. The mutual washing turned sexual. His hands came around and fondled her, everywhere. She turned to face him and leaned back against the bamboo barrier. He pressed close and took her. Halfway through, she turned again and bent forward, holding the half wall.

  A trip flare popped into the sky over the western perimeter. The bunker sentry on that side ratcheted a .50-caliber machine gun, seating the first six-inch shell.

  "What's up?" Checkman slurred, smiling.

  "Nothing. A prowling animal, is all. Just keep the lit joint down there. Don't get up."

  "I'm not sure I can," he said and chortled.

  The flare descended slowly. Nothing in the kill zone. A brief ghostly light swayed over the spent lovers. Roberta and the colonel.

  9

  I WAS PAIRED UP with Colonel Bennett for the drive back. He obviously wanted to speak with me privately, but not about what I'd thought.

  "I understand John Ruchevsky had a set-to with Major Gidding," he said.

  "Yes, sir. Big John is pretty frustrated about the, ah, seepage situation."

  "As are we all, Captain."

  "Sir, isn't there anything we can do about Colonel Chinh's profiteering? The gasoline? The rice?"

  "You know the score. He writes my report card. As senior adviser, I'm judged by how happy I keep my counterpart."

  "And is he happy?"

  "So long as I get him what he wants by way of materiel and air assets and don't demand too much from him or his troops."

  "So we give him what he wants."

  "Don't always want to, but yes. I manage to get him the supplies, the copters, the toys. Hard to deny him since Chinh holds all the cards. He's the Man. My job is to bolster, persuade, cajole, get him to act. And I won't be able to do it if Big John starts seriously rattling Chinh's cage and challenging his perks."

  A line of Jarai boys stood along the roadside, waving. Bennett waved back. I was still jumpy from the trip back to Mai Linh after dark. Having investigated incidents of Vietnamese kids delivering lethal greetings to unwary Americans, I switched off the safety.

  "You have children, Captain?"

  "No, sir," I said, eyes fixed on the boys. "Any waiting for you at home?"

  "Afraid not. I'd like to snatch a couple of these little guys
to bring back, give them a chance at a real future. Have you had much contact with Montagnards?"

  "Nothing like this, sir." We were past the line of boys, and I relaxed. I glanced at the colonel. "You like the Yards."

  "They're innately honest, don't have a calendar, don't read or count, rely almost entirely on barter to get by, and insist that everyone get looped at their ceremonies. You gotta love 'em."

  Big John was waiting for me, enjoying one of his stogies and writing something longhand. My head was killing me.

  "I hear you're godfather to a little Victor Charlie," he said, not looking up.

  "Yeah, the doc said the dad's VC. Not sure how she knew."

  "She treated him for a gunshot last year. He's full-time local cadre. Nearly the top dog's right hand. Remember Mr. Wolf Man?" Ruchevsky fussed with his cigar ash. "You think Roberta might be willing to persuade our grateful new dad to help us, ah ... interview his boss?"

  "C'mon. She takes sides and she and her clinic are history."

  "Yeah. Thought you'd say that." Ruchevsky held up his hands defensively. "Won't push it."

  "Yeah, and the colonel wants you to put a lid on the seepage complaints. You're making his job harder."

  "Sorry to hear that," he said sarcastically. "Excuse me for trying to do my job."

  "Odd thing at the Mai Linh Special Forces camp," I said.

  "Yeah, what?"

  "A Yard patrol got twenty kilos of pure Laotian heroin dropped on it by a South Vietnamese aircraft."

  "That's the weather in Southeast Asia for you," Ruchevsky said, "hot and humid with a chance of falling heroin. It's raining dope bundles in Pleiku Province too. The traffickers are moving so much product they can't land it all in Saigon. So they drop it in the sea where it gets fished out by colleagues, and they drop it in the jungle at collection points to have it trucked to Saigon. The province chief in Pleiku collects five grand for every shipment. Talk about falling in your lap. Five large for doing fuck-all."

  "Why can't we get work like that?" I said.

  "Here," Ruchevsky said, producing a manila file folder. "Take a peek at this."

  I read it with one eye closed, fighting the ache in my head. The current set of ruling generals, the report said, were providing safe passage for Cholon's Chinese and Corsican syndicates smuggling raw opium and processed heroin into and out of South Viet Nam. Two refineries in Saigon's Chinese district, run by survivors of Chiang Kai-shek's Eighty-fourth Regiment, were operating around the clock. Refined and unrefined dope came in on regular commercial carriers like Lao Air and on South Vietnamese military transports once commanded by Vice Air Marshal Ky. Now Premier Ky. Dumping his politically incorrect French wife and mother of his brood, he'd taken up with an Air Vietnam stewardess and built a modest mansion for them right on Ton Son Nhut Air Base, overlooking the runways bringing in the stuff.

  Ky had consolidated his control of law enforcement and intelligence by making an old classmate the director of the Military Security Service and head of their Central Intelligence Organization, and director-general of the National Police. The classmate, in turn, appointed his own brother-in-law the mayor of Saigon.

  Hundreds of kilos were being carried into Saigon by military attachés, diplomats, stewardesses, civilian travelers, and intelligence agents, in unaccompanied luggage and diplomatic pouches. More arrived on Vietnamese naval ships and river patrol vessels and fishing boats that picked up drug shipments dropped into the Gulf of Siam. Shipments sailed for Europe, for Hong Kong, for America. Coming in or going out, the contraband was protected. Police, the military, and customs looked the other way: courtesy of the port. A footnote identified the port director as Ky's brother-in-law.

  Closing the folder, I said, "The South Vietnamese can't be happy with the competition of VC trafficking. Or having hard currency diverted to the People's Army when it could be filling pockets in Saigon."

  "I don't know," Ruchevsky said, standing up. "If the VC get the dope raised around here and smuggle it all the way to Saigon, the syndicates wouldn't care whose goods they were moving. Likewise the customs and port officials. The admirals and generals either. War or no war, business is business."

  Big John stooped, his hands resting on his knees, and stared at me closely. "Rider," he said.

  "Yeah?"

  "You don't look right."

  I didn't feel right. My head swam and an awful pain blossomed behind my left eye, clouding my vision. The next second I was on my ass, every joint in my body blazing with pain.

  Dengue. The recurrence of the fever took me by surprise. One second I was feeling tiptop, the next my body seized up and my joints hurt so bad that my mind went fuzzy and objects turned liquid. Not for nothing was it called breakbone fever. The MACV medic, Doc Wright, popped me full of pills and put cold cloths on my forehead.

  A day later I felt light and empty and a little weak in the knees. I was upright, though, and insisted I was functional. Wright didn't buy it. He ordered bed rest and put Mama-san Duc on the case. The old woman was a staunch Viet Minh nationalist who did our laundry and cleaned our quarters. Years earlier she'd portaged supplies into the mountains for the guerrillas fighting the French. The men in the compound had grown fond of her and of the way she'd berate anyone who crossed her, regardless of his status or whether or not he understood her. Mama-san Duc popped in regularly to check on me and dressed me down in rapid Vietnamese if I made any move to get up. I knew when I was beaten and slept the day away.

  When Bac-si Wright stopped by early in the evening to take my temperature, I was alert enough to be alarmed.

  "Doc!"

  "What?"

  "You look like hell."

  "Yeah? I feel punk."

  "Your eyes are yellow, Doc."

  "Fuck," he said and glanced in the small shaving mirror on the back of the door. He muttered, "I gotta go," and bolted.

  I passed out again. The doc came back a few hours later, or so I thought. But it wasn't Doc Wright or Mama-san. It was Roberta bringing me cold water.

  "Sergeant Wright's not doing so well," she said. "I'm making house calls for him."

  I thanked her and quaffed a whole glass. It was painfully cold going down. My knees and elbows burned, and a white pain blurred my vision.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Broken."

  "Here's another blanket," she said, and covered me with it. "I'll check on you later. Oh, a Sergeant Miser came by earlier. He said you should stop malingering."

  No matter how hard I tried to keep from slipping away, sleep took me again.

  I was woken in the night by a commotion and shuffled outside. First Sergeant Mote, in green skivvies and flip-flops, came out of the medic's room four doors down. To the east a distant flare floated earthward in complete silence, haloed by humidity.

  "What's up, Top?"

  The first sergeant stopped. "Bac-si's yellow as a gook."

  "Hepatitis. Shit."

  "Yeah," Top commiserated. "I hate those shots. How are you holding up?"

  "Better." I returned to my bunk and slept normally the rest of the night.

  The first sergeant and the perimeter guards coming off duty medevaced Doc Wright in the morning, swapping him for a load of gamma globulin. The whole team needed inoculation. Westy climbed the water tower and doused our water supply with an extra load of purifier. I went to the mess hall and mixed salt and sugar into a glass of powdered milk and gulped it down. Outside, enlisted men stood around the top steps of the commo bunker, speculating about the leper colony upriver and what might have gone into the current there. But hell, lots of Montagnard villages were upstream, and bathers and washerwomen from town. No telling where the hepatitis originated: food or drinking water.

  In the absence of an Army medic, Roberta stepped in to administer the large doses of gamma globulin. Team members convoyed to her clinic all day, a few at a time. The commo bunker advised all approaching aircraft that, by order of senior adviser Lieutenant Colonel Bennett, anyone who la
nded at the airstrip and set foot on the ground had to be inoculated as well. American pilots didn't even cut off their engines. They'd land and drop open their back ramps as they taxied, sending aviation-gas blivets bounding along the perforated steel planks toward the petrol dump. After they'd dumped them all out, they gunned their engines and took right off again. I was at the strip enforcing Bennett's order when a twin-propeller Caribou with kangaroo insignia landed with supply pallets. The Aussie pilots taxied over to us at the CONEX to inquire about the day's luncheon menu. I radioed in to the commo bunker to check. Hearing it was meat loaf, the four of them deplaned. We warned them our cooks weren't exactly Paris trained. They didn't care.

  The Montagnards they had on board to handle the heavy lifting were less eager to be dartboarded by our female shaman and elected to remain behind, squatting on the lowered ramp.

  "We'll send the little bleeders back some lunch," the aircraft commander said. I radioed the commo bunker and had them summon the doc.

  Roberta drove out to the airstrip and injected the big dosages into the Aussies' keisters. The Australians enjoyed themselves thoroughly, taking snapshots of the lady doctor jabbing their bare bums, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. Afterward they posed for a group picture mooning Viet Nam and then hitched a ride into the compound on the bed of the engineers' truck. They invited me to join their upright luncheon party. They'd brought Worcestershire sauce, a jar of something revolting called Vegemite, and their own Australian beer, chilled at altitude.

  "You blokes take this whole dustup too seriously," the copilot said. "You oughta sample the output from those beautiful fields due south of here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Gorgeous poppy fields up on a mountain, about twelve miles south. Ruddy fantastic at the moment. Flowers everywhere. Looks like Flanders."

  After they finished eating, I made the copilot point out the peak on my map and thanked him. This was my first real lead. The Aussie crew left a gift bottle of Bundaberg rum for the bar and rode back to their plane standing on the engineers' truck, singing four-part harmony: