South China Sea wi-8

by Ian Slater

  “Yes…” There was a pause as if he was thinking about it. “Probably.”

  He was trying the key in the gray box. Bien! It fit, and he dropped it in his pocket.

  “Probably what?” she called out above the noise of the gravity rinse that came in a torrent over her body.

  “Probably I have eaten it, yes.”

  She was out of the shower, and her nakedness aroused him again.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” she said, throwing his shirt at him. His Gallic shrug told her there would be another time. “Probably.” She shrugged playfully in return. “Maybe.” He forced a smile.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Nuoc — water—was the first word some of the more than a hundred Caucasian POWs learned. The water was tepid and tasted metallic, but at least it was liquid, and the POWs, on what they were by now grimly calling “Upshut’s Island,” drank it gratefully yet resentfully, realizing as they did so that their dependence on him meant that Upshut’s power over them had been tightened another notch. Even Murphy, the outspoken and garrulous Australian, was wary of the PLA guards’ displeasure, though they were now a good fifty yards away, and was wondering how he and his fellow prisoners could survive on the meager rations being handed out. Despite the ample supply of fish that was the result of the explosions in the coral reef, the Chinese were giving the prisoners only enough to sustain them, and not bothering to cook the fish, which they simply tossed among the POWs as if amid a pack of dogs.

  “Bastards,” Murphy said, but quietly enough that the guards couldn’t hear him. “Hope none of these are bloody stonefish.” He waited for a response but none of the other nineteen prisoners in his group said anything, some frantically trying to figure out how best to deal with raw fish with your bare hands. “Stonefish’ll kill you in less than five minutes.” Only Shirley Fortescue balked at what lay in front of her. “Don’t worry,” Murphy said. “None of these are stonefish.”

  “Why bring it up, then?” she said tersely. “You enjoy frightening people?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Shirl. Just somethin’ to say, y’know.”

  “And I’ve told you before my name’s Shirley, not Shirl.”

  “Piss on you, lady.”

  “Hey, Mike,” Danny Mellin interjected. “Ease up.”

  “No problem, Dan, just trying to pass the time.”

  “Well, don’t,” Shirley said. “It’s going to be tough enough as it is. We don’t need your warped sense of humor on top of it.”

  “Listen up, you two,” Danny cut in. “We’ve got trouble enough without you two starting another war.” Mike Murphy was using a sharp-edged shell to scale the rockfish.

  “War’s already started,” Murphy answered petulantly.

  “Yeah,” Danny said, “but we’re in the middle of nowhere—”

  “We’re in the Paracels,” Shirley cut in. “Far as I can tell, somewhere near Pottle or Woody islands.”

  “Whoopee,” Murphy said.

  “Mike,” Danny said, “put a lid on it. What I was saying was that we have to start figuring a few things out because when they’re done building this airstrip, what are they going to do with us?”

  “What makes you so sure it’s an airstrip?” Murphy asked, tearing hungrily at a piece of fish.

  “Well,” Danny said, “it’s the wrong shape for a baseball diamond.”

  Shirley Fortescue laughed.

  “Yeah, well,” Murphy said, feeling foolish in light of Mellin’s repartee. “Why in hell would the Chinese be blowing up a reef and rolling it flat when there’s already an airstrip on Woody Island?”

  “Because,” Shirley answered in as civil a tone as she could manage with the Australian, “Woody Island’s airstrip was wrecked by the Vietnamese in the first few days of the war. It was blown up and the island occupied by Vinh’s marines within a few hours of Chical 3 getting hit.”

  “The rig you were on?” Danny said.

  “Yes. We got the news on the distress channel from a few foreign rigs drilling offshore.”

  “So now Upshut Island is to replace Woody Island,” Danny said.

  “Right.”

  “Ah, rats!” Murphy said, his tone trying for a jauntiness that he knew the others were either too thirsty or too hungry to share. “Your lot,” he told Danny. “Seventh Fleet won’t let ‘em build an airstrip here — middle of bloody nowhere or Paracels — whatever. Yanks’ll bomb the crap out of it.”

  Neither Shirley Fortescue nor Danny Mellin said anything for a few moments. The Australian was indisputably brave, as his helping Danny earlier in their capture had demonstrated, and he was clearly intelligent enough to have been working on one of the South China Sea rigs before the war had started, yet he was surprisingly naive politically, as evident from his remarks about the Seventh Fleet bombing Upshut Island.

  “Haven’t you noticed, Mr. Murphy,” Shirley began, “how many Americans, British, and Australians have been brought to this island?”

  “Yeah, Miss Fortescue, I have. So?”

  “You don’t see any reason for that — the fact that there must be over a hundred of us here?”

  “All right, so they’re using us as bloody coolies,” Murphy retorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

  “Mike,” Danny said calmly, “they’re using us as bloody hostages.” He paused. “As well as coolies. The President isn’t going to order the Seventh Fleet or any other fleet to bomb the ‘crap’ out of this speck in the ocean. Not with so many American and British and—” Murphy looked thunderstruck, so Danny tried to lighten it up. “They won’t even bomb Aussies!”

  Murphy was still silent.

  “Lookit,” Danny continued, “even when we bombed the crap out of Hanoi, our guys never went near the Hanoi Hilton.” Shirley Fortescue looked nonplussed. “Hanoi Hilton,” Danny explained to her, “was the POW jail in Hanoi. During ‘Nam.”

  “Oh…”

  “Bloody hell!” Murphy pronounced. “Then how the dick are we gonna get off this bloody island? I mean, I thought we’d at least be traded or something.”

  “What do you suggest meanwhile?” Shirley asked. “We swim for it?”

  “Very bloody funny.”

  “Actually,” she riposted, “it isn’t bloody funny at all.”

  “Hoy! Hoy!” It was one of Upshut’s guards jabbing his Kalashnikov at the prisoners, indicating that they should get up and back to work hauling great loads of coral, then straining on the ropes of the cement rollers to flatten it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Tokyo

  If it had been handheld computer games that had taken Southeast Asia by storm, then in Japan it was the craze for karaoke, patrons of bars singing to recorded music. And this night Jae Chong was foot stomping and humming along to a raucous rendition of country music, including a tub-thumping version of “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” Jae ordered another drink, and though several other people had their hands up ahead of him, he was the one the waiter decided to serve first. The waiter, Jae thought, probably despised him for being Korean, but he was a Korean with money, and that made all the difference. For more yen, the waiter would treat him like royalty, and Jae was spending big. Why not? He was convinced that by now every police station in Japan had his photograph or artist’s likeness and yellow sheet.

  The only thing keeping him off Japanese TV’s “Most Wanted” program was, ironically, the very press that had been so vocal in calling for the capture of all terrorists responsible for the bullet train wreck. For while it was widely known that there were Korean terrorists in the country, it was not known that the Japanese Defense Force had a CIA-type agency, and to keep the press off the scent, the JDF had to arrange a cover story for the killing of the three policemen, including the American agent Wray. There were Japanese constitutional restraints forbidding an intelligence agency from having links or even liaison with the U.S. CIA.

  But Jae Chong was under no illusion. Once the JDF had its story watertight, th
en his photo would be flashed across every TV screen in the country as the Korean terrorist responsible for the murder of two Tokyo policemen and a visiting American specialist, ostensibly in Japan to “collect information on American gangs,” a growing problem in North America.

  And Jae Chong knew that once his face went public, he’d be lucky to last a week. In any event, his cover was now completely blown. Whatever Pyongyang’s assurances to its agents in South Korea, he knew Pyongyang would make no effort to recover him, because, unlike Moscow’s rules in the old cold war, Chong and other “abroad agents” were considered expendable. There were only two Pyongyang rules, the first being that if you were caught, no recovery effort would be mounted. Second, if you talked, your next of kin would be shot. Not surprisingly, it encouraged North Korean agents to commit suicide when blown.

  Jae faced the inevitable in a drunken stupor and a cloud of Lucky Strike, without rancor, without remorse. He hated the Japanese deeply for what they had done to his grandparents during the Second World War, and besides, to tell the truth, he’d enjoyed the relatively rich consumer life in Japan as compared to the hardships of home, where all the money possible had been drained off and funneled into North Korea’s nuclear program. Trust the U.S. President to have believed that a final “understanding,” in short, a financial buyoff in terms of U.S. aid, had caused North Korea to “deconstruct” its nuclear weapons program. True, the factories in question had now been effectively gutted of any nuclear potential, but with Pyongyang’s old ties to the Soviet Union still largely intact with Russia, the men who ran Pyongyang now had Russian and North Korean scientists going back and forth on mutually beneficial cultural exchange programs. Only one thing was needed — a conventional Soviet submarine with its nuclear missiles intact.

  The problem now, with the old Soviet Union in disarray, wasn’t the price. There were a half-dozen admirals one could do business with. No, the problem for Pyongyang was simply one of procurement, and enough terrorism in capitalist countries like Japan to play havoc with transport systems, such as the bullet trains, that kept supplying the USVUN convoys that sailed from Japan to be used against Beijing’s soldiers. Whatever North Korea’s agents could do to impede the convoys would be gratefully, if not publicly, acknowledged by Beijing by according Pyongyang increased access to its nuclear secrets.

  As Jae Chong contemplated his end, he included in his calculations the chance of pulling off one more coup — something maybe not as spectacular as the bullet train. To go out into the field with this in mind was foolish, of course. Transport police, especially, would be on the lookout for him. No, he decided he would do something less risky but equally devastating. He ordered more scotch and another packet of Lucky Strikes. Even the old tightwads who ran the Japan circuit in Pyongyang wouldn’t begrudge him having a bit of a party, in exchange for what he was going to do for good relations between Pyongyang and Beijing. Jae lit up another cigarette before one of the prowling bar girls giggled and pointed out that he already had one going. He lifted his glass to her and laughed. No, no, he didn’t want any company just now. He was so pissed, he said, he probably couldn’t get it up, but maybe she should come to see him in the morning.

  “The morning?” She looked surprised. “That’s a bit odd, lover.”

  Yes, he agreed, it was — about as odd as a Japanese twerp singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” and now the silly bastard was going to punish everyone with an encore, “The Streets of Laredo.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “No,” the lethargic hotel clerk told Baker, he hadn’t seen anyone hanging around the hotel. And no betel-chewing youth either. Baker pulled out two dollars to help his memory. It didn’t, and the clerk didn’t seem as upset over a burglarized room as perhaps he should have been, but then maybe the new Republic of Vietnam, like everywhere else, was experiencing more crime than usual.

  “You’d better call the police,” Baker said.

  At this suggestion the clerk seemed to suddenly come to life, his alarm evident. The police would not be good for business. Besides, was Bac Baker sure he wanted to get involved with the police who, as Bac Baker must know, were often — he paused and looked about—”very difficult to deal with if you are a foreigner — and especially if you are American”?

  “My understanding,” Baker said, “is that Hanoi has issued directives to this specific problem — that foreigners — potential investors, customers, especially Americans — who are here helping them fight the Chinese aggression are to be accorded all respect. Is this not so?”

  The clerk spread his hands in the universal plea for understanding. “Yes, yes, of course,” he answered. Everyone knew about the official directives, but the police were sticky beaks, shoving their noses into all kinds of things that didn’t concern them.

  “I don’t care if you call them or not,” Baker said. “Nothing of mine is missing, as far as I can tell.” The clerk seemed relieved. “How long,” Baker asked, “would it take me to get to Lang Bian and the nine hamlets that make up Lat village?”

  “Ah!” The clerk was smiling, showing a row of dark brown stained teeth. “I can be of assistance. You cannot walk — is too far. You must take bus. Round-trip, you understand?”

  “Never mind the bus. I’ll get a taxi.”

  The clerk was shaking his head, eyes half closed. Baker sighed wearily. Couldn’t anything in this country be done simply, without either a bureaucratic hassle and/or money under the table?

  “How much?”

  “You will need a permit. This is fifteen dollars.”

  Baker said nothing, waiting.

  “Ah, yes. Twenty-five dollars for rental car. Bus take too long.”

  “Who do I rent the car from?”

  “Government office,” the clerk said, smiling. “Or you can ride bicycle.”

  “Yeah, right,” Baker said. “Where do I get the permit?”

  “Ah, Bac Baker. Here I can be of assistance.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “No, no, no betting allowed. Strictly forbidden in—”

  “How much?” Baker cut in.

  “Forty dollars,” the clerk said, now the epitome of helpfulness, hastily adding, “Lat village very beautiful.”

  “Where can I get the permit?”

  “At police station. But you no worry. I can fix.”

  Baker shook his head resignedly and paid half the total of forty dollars.

  “You wait here, Bac Baker. I will arrange for car to come here.”

  “The permit?”

  “Permit also.”

  “All right. But hurry it up.” The clerk was already on the phone. “Can I stay overnight in Lat?” Baker called out.

  The clerk made a face. “Difficult, I think.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollar. Maybe no stay is possible.”

  “Then how come you know it’s twenty dollars?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Ha ha,” Baker imitated. “You wouldn’t have a connection with a hotel in Lat, would you?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Look,” Baker demanded, “stop screwing me around. Fix the police permit, fix the goddamn rental, and fix me up overnight.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but why overnight?”

  “Well, you tell me. Lat village”—he pronounced it correctly now as “Lak,” as a way of showing “Ha Ha” that he was more familiar with Vietnamese practices than Ha Ha had given him credit for—”is very beautiful, you told me. Maybe I want to take the walk up K’Lang in the moonlight.” K’Lang was the eastern peak of Lang Bian Mountain’s five peaks.

  “Yes, yes,” Ha Ha agreed readily. “Beautiful in the moonshine.”

  “Right. Now I want all this fixed up—” He glanced at his watch. “—by eleven this morning or I’m out of here. Understand? I’d just as rather be back in Saigon.” Baker still refused to call it Ho Chi Minh City — a little private rebellion.

  “Okay-you pay ten dollar more. Overnight stay.”
<
br />   “No I don’t. I don’t pay squat till I see a vehicle, a permit, and anything else I need. Understand?”

  “ ‘Squat’?”

  Baker didn’t elaborate. After a few seconds Ha Ha had figured it out.

  “I will fix,” he said, and went out.

  “Good,” Baker said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. By now his obsession with trying to find just one MIA or POW from ‘Nam was waning, at least for this morning. It was unusually hot for Dalat, normally an ideal climate year-round, and the haggling one had to go through to get the simplest government approval seemed twice as oppressive in the heat. Officially, Hanoi had issued more of what amounted to “help American” directives, and while this was being practiced in the north with regard to the USVUN alliance, to the south there were still many old former North Vietnamese Army regulars and cadres who were either too corrupt or too resentful of their old enemies to be of much help. Right there and then Ray Baker vowed that if nothing turned up in Lat village or Lang Bian Mountain, he’d head back to Saigon and turn his attention to some other problem that was more satisfying, maybe helping with the American Vietnamese adoption agency.

  When the clerk arrived, he came in beaming. He had everything Bac Baker needed, and was especially proud of the rental. It was a jeep, either U.S. Army surplus, or as the Vietnamese had done with all the helos the U.S. had left behind, it was made up by cannibalizing the wrecks of several jeeps. The fact that he was now hiring a U.S.-made jeep to look for U.S. MIAs and POWs captured by the Vietnamese who were now allies with Americans struck Baker as an irony that only Vietnam vets would fully appreciate.

  “Four-wheel drive!” the clerk announced proudly.

  Baker nodded. “So I hear.”

  “Good luck.”

  Baker thanked him, then immediately wondered what the clerk had meant. Good luck for what? Did Ha Ha know more about his reason for going to Lak village, or had he, Baker, let it slip somehow? Then again, there wasn’t anything particularly secretive about an American official investigating a report about U.S. MIAs and POWs. In fact, maybe Ha Ha could help him. “You know anything about American MIAs and POWs?”