Black Market

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  Arnason shook his head. He could imagine the pressure the young captain had been under.

  “When I got my orders for Vietnam, she wanted me to run to Canada with her and the kids…” The officer sobbed, “I just couldn’t do that … I couldn’t betray my country!”

  Arnason started walking, guiding the captain by his elbow toward the battalion area. “I give you my vote … you did the right thing.”

  “Sarge.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Sergeant … I still love her…”

  Arnason felt the man’s pain. He had been through a very tough divorce himself right before he had shipped out for Vietnam, almost four years earlier. He hadn’t been back to the States since. “Come on sir, get some sleep and maybe we can work something out with Shaw in the morning.”

  Arnason failed to see the dark shadow watching them from the side of the Recon Company’s orderly room. Captain Youngbloode had heard everything.

  Woods had saved Spencer Barnett’s letter until last and used his bayonet to open the top of the envelope. A color Polaroid snapshot of Barnett dressed in well-worn Wrangler jeans and boots fell out of the end of the folded pages. Woods picked it up off the floor and held the photo up to his face to blow the sand particles off it. He held the snapshot of his best war buddy under the light of the Coleman lantern and stared. Barnett was wearing a Levi’s jacket without a shirt. Woods could see that Barnett’s chest had filled out again and smiled to himself. Spence always acted like a little bantam rooster. He had gained back all the weight he had lost while he had been a prisoner of war, and a smile framed the Hollywood set of teeth the oral surgeons had built for him.

  Woods smiled and adjusted the picture under the flickering light. The prisoner snatch operation they had pulled off had become a classic mission and had made the recon team a legend. Woods laid the photograph next to his leg on the bunk and bent the pages of Barnett’s letter open so that he could read in the dim light the perfectly blocked words.

  Yo! David!

  Life here at Walter Reed is real good! I’m sending you a picture of me at one of the nurse’s family’s horse farm. She brings me out here quite often for therapy! I like her kind of therapy a hell of a lot better than the therapy they gave me when I was in a juvenile home. Her therapy at least makes sense. We even go horseback riding…

  Woods chuckled under his breath. He was remembering the first time he and Barnett had gone to a Vietnamese steam bath. It had been a disaster for Barnett, and now the guy is having field trips with his nurses! Woods smiled even more; maybe Spencer will be able to pull it all together.

  I love it here in Virginia. The doctors let me go out of the hospital just about every night and on the weekends. Washington D.C. is exciting, but I like the farm country of Virginia the best. You know I’ve got that farm shit in my blood. I think I told you that I lived on a farm with foster parents, didn’t I. Well, it doesn’t matter, I haven’t left shit back there in South Carolina.

  Hey, how’s Sergeant Arnason doing? Is he still in Vietnam? Now there is one hard core motherfucker! Tell him I said hi.

  Have you heard what happened to James? Check it out for me, will you? I’d like to know where he’s at…

  David felt a cold shiver slip down his back. Specialist Mohammed James had been one of their recon team members and had gone through the Special Forces RECONDO School in Nha Trang the same time Barnett and Woods had, and they had graduated together. James had been a prisoner in the same POW camp as Spencer and had turned coat and worked for the North Vietnamese. James was being held in a maximum security federal prison awaiting a court-martial. Woods knew a little about what had gone on between James and Barnett and had heard about the photograph of James beating Spencer. He hadn’t seen the picture, but the commander at the Special Forces camp at A Shau had, and he had told Arnason about it. Woods frowned. The last thing he would do would be to tell Spencer about James; he knew his friend was obsessed with killing him.

  … I owe James something and I’d like to pay him back…

  Woods noticed that when Spencer wrote the word James his normally perfect printing became scribbles.

  Enough about him! So how are you doing in the war zone? When are they going to wise up and make you a sergeant? They’re talking about promoting me, but I think between you and I, they only want to do that because they’re embarrassed that I’m a corporal and a “hero” of the Vietnam War. Can you believe that shit! They keep coming in here and telling me that I’m some kind of hero. I don’t think a day goes by where someone from the Pentagon doesn’t stop by my room and ask me questions about being a POW. What in the fuck do they think it was like, a fucking girl scout camp? I’m getting pissed off, but I wish they would leave me alone. I could use seeing your ugly face. Man I need a friend…

  Woods reread the sentence. He could sense that Barnett was not as happy as he was making himself out to be. Everyone knew that it would be a long time before Barnett would be released from the Army hospital. Just from the long talks he had with Barnett during base camp guard duty, he knew that Barnett had real problems as a kid growing up. He had been severely abused by his stepfather and had gone through hell in a South Carolina juvenile home before he joined the Army. When you added the prisoner-of-war period to all of that, you had one very confused young man. Woods turned the page and adjusted his seat so that he could get more light from the lantern.

  … I don’t want to sound queer, but you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I just want you to know that Dave.

  I wrote Master Sergeant McDonald a letter at the RECONDO School and he wrote me a long letter back. He might be coming to Washington D.C. in the near future on some business and he promised to look me up. I hope he makes it. I liked him a lot.

  Don’t forget to tell Sergeant Arnason that I said hi and that he should keep his powder dry.

  RECONDO!

  Spence

  P.S. WBS!

  Woods refolded the letter along its original creases and slipped it into the steel ammo box he used to protect all of his letters from home. He looked up, saw Warner staring at him, and smiled.

  “Something wrong, Sarge?” Warner turned over on his side and propped his head up using his folded arm.

  “Naw … I got a letter from an old teammate who’s back in a stateside hospital.”

  “Is he doing all right?” Warner’s voice reflected his concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No, but thanks anyway, Warner.” Woods left the bunker and stepped out into the dark shadows. He found himself a sandbag seat in the dark and leaned back against the cool sandbag wall of the bunker. He removed his package of Kools and lit up. The sandbag seat had been built there for just that purpose. Arnason didn’t allow smoking inside the bunker, and at night you couldn’t smoke on top of the fighting structure because the glow from the cigarette could be seen for miles. He held the first lungful of smoke for what seemed like an hour and then released it.

  The shadow left the line of hooches and cut across the open area toward the bunker. Woods saw the outline of the man carrying a weapon coming toward him. He could tell almost instantly that the shadow was Arnason returning from his poker game, by the way the shadow moved. The flares that were being fired out in the no-man’s zone had placed Woods in a dark shadow at the back side of the bunker. He cupped the end of his cigarette and waited until Arnason drew closer. He was going to surprise him.

  A second before Woods was going to speak, Arnason stopped walking and looked directly at where he was sitting in the black shadow. “You’re up late, Woods.”

  “How did you see me here!” Woods knew he had cupped his cigarette before Arnason could have seen it.

  “Smell … my young sergeant. I could smell your cigarette way the fuck back there.” Arnason held up his arm and pointed at the parachute flares drifting above their heads. “Notice the wind is blowing the flares back toward the camp.”

  Woods felt dumb and changed the subject. “
Have a seat.”

  “I just might. Who’s on guard?”

  “Koski and Sanchez. Warner and I have the graveyard shift tonight.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Who, Warner?”

  “Yeah.”

  Woods thought for a few seconds before answering. “He’s a very smart guy and I think the team can use that. Koski and Sanchez are tough and I think they’re going to really jell as a two-man team. Between you and me, we lucked out and drew three aces.”

  The new replacements could all hear the sergeants talking and all three of them smiled to themselves. Warner slipped his hands behind his head and laced his fingers together. He liked the compliment Sergeant Woods had given him, mostly because it was true. He had been tested every year at the Cranbrook School and had always placed in the top one percent. He had even snuck a look at his private files and had seen an IQ test result that showed a score of a hundred and forty-three. He knew he was smart, but what the sergeant didn’t know was that he had a highly developed photographic memory.

  “Speaking of aces…” Arnason’s voice dropped. “Shaw really screwed over that new supply officer tonight. He took him for over eight grand.”

  “Eight thousand dollars!” Woods leaned forward on his seat.

  “Yeah, but it was a real rip-off. I tried to stop it, but Shaw went ahead and nailed him … Look, Woods, I told Shaw that I was going to get his ass and I am…”

  Woods sensed what was coming next.

  “Dave, I know that something happened a couple months ago when you and Masters went with Shaw to Qui Nhon.” Arnason sat down on the ground in front of Woods. “I need to know what it was.”

  Woods took his time lighting up another smoke before answering. “I can’t prove anything.”

  “I’m not a fucking judge and this isn’t a courtroom.” Arnason released the air that was built up in his lungs. “Just tell me what you know.”

  “All right, but you’re going to think I’m fucking nuts.”

  ‘Try me.”

  “I think Shaw and the yardmaster back in Qui Nhon had Masters killed.”

  Warner bumped his head on the roof of the bunker when he jerked upright. He bit his lip to hold back the groan and felt his forehead for blood. Koski and Sanchez both looked at each other.

  “Shaw went up in the yardmaster’s tower to get his paperwork signed and Masters and I slipped under the tower to get out of the sun. Shaw didn’t know we could hear everything he was saying, and we heard him cutting a deal for some meat with the yardmaster. Shaw has been black-marketing meat for a long time, along with a lot of other stuff. The meat is declared unfit for human consumption by the quartermaster vet and then they sell it to the Vietnamese…” Woods ground out his cigarette and lit another one. He was very nervous. “Masters got real mad and wanted to tell the CID about it. I didn’t think it would be a good idea. Who would believe a couple of grunts against NCOs and officers?”

  “I understand, Dave. You don’t have to make any excuses with me.”

  “I told Masters if he was going to the Criminal Investigations guys to keep me the fuck out of it. He got pissed and left.”

  “Did he go to the CID?”

  “Yes, that’s why he stayed back at Qui Nhon that night. They wanted to get statements from him.”

  Arnason had put the picture together. “So when Lieutenant Reed was telling us that Masters had been killed by VC sappers, that’s why you got mad!”

  “Yeah, it didn’t make sense. Masters reported Shaw and the yardmaster and the next day he’s floating headless in the bay.”

  “I think you’ve got something there, David!” Arnason slapped his thigh and stood up. “Man! I thought Shaw was small-time but he’s been making a bundle and that explains why he’s extending for his third tour over here as a supply sergeant!”

  “Probably…” Woods looked up at the stars. “This is a fucked-up war.”

  “From what you said, not only are there officers and NCOs involved in it, but the CID!” Arnason looked up at the top of the bunker. “You guys keep this to yourselves. Hear me?”

  Sanchez answered for Koski and himself. “No problem here, Sarge.”

  “Warner?” Arnason spoke at the black entranceway. He had lived in the fighting bunker too long not to realize their conversation could be overheard.

  “I haven’t heard a thing, Sergeant Arnason. I’ve been sleeping all the time.”

  “Good! Because this could get real nasty … real nasty!”

  Arnason had meant every word he had said to Shaw earlier in the evening. He was going to bum his ass. The incident with the new captain was too much. Shaw was making a fortune off the war while he and the young troops were risking their asses out in the field. Shaw was an infantry sergeant, not quartermaster, which made his profiteering criminal as far as Arnason was concerned, and that was all that counted. If Shaw had anything to do with Daryl Masters’s death, Arnason decided that he would find out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Black Tiger

  The storm arrived at the base camp with a tempestuous rage of high winds that forced the rain to blow parallel to the ground. None of the hooches had been designed to protect against rain attacking the sides of the structures, and gallons of water poured into the offices and sleeping quarters, getting everything wet. The force of the monsoon thrashed the tall grasses, and the trip flares around the perimeter were being ignited, causing the guards to become very jumpy and fire blindly into the solid sheets of water.

  “I’m glad we had the first shift tonight.” Koski checked the edge of the plywood flap that covered the gun port near his bunk. “Warner and Sergeant Woods must be soaked by now.”

  “They’ll survive up there.” Arnason turned down the Coleman lantern in the snug bunker and lay down on his bunk fully dressed. He rarely took off more than his boots at night. It had become a habit with him to shower during the day and then change uniforms right after the sun went down and it cooled off. “This bunker can take a direct hit from a 122mm rocket and should be able to handle a little monsoon rain.”

  Sanchez listened to the storm outside the bunker and reached up and touched the crucifix he had attached to the frame at the head of his bunk for good luck anyway. He had lived through a hurricane that had hit Florida one year when they were down there picking oranges and the fear had stayed with him. He had been only six years old and they weathered the storm sitting in a tar-paper shack.

  Woods tried locating Warner on top of the bunker. He couldn’t see anything but black water striking his face. He knew Warner was sitting only a few feet away.

  Warner licked the water around his mouth and then bit his upper lip. He was scared. Three of the trip flares in front of their bunker had gone off and he was sure that the Vietcong were using the storm as a cover to sneak up on them. He kept asking himself what in the fuck was he doing there on a sandbag bunker in the middle of a fucking war. The collar of his poncho was acting like a funnel, directing the water running down his face to his neck and then under the poncho to his dry clothes. He could feel the water spreading out, soaking everything under the poncho. He didn’t care as long as the rubber garment kept him warm.

  Warner opened his mouth, tried taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, and nearly choked. He had never been in a storm as severe as the one he was sitting through. Once he had been caught in a heavy thunderstorm driving back from their cabin in his 427 AC Cobra. He had been more worried about wrecking the fifteen-thousand-dollar sports car than getting hurt himself. Warner smiled to himself in the rain and felt the cool water wash his teeth. His thoughts went to the car he loved more than just about any inanimate thing. He thought about how hard his dad had worked to surprise him with the car. They had a family tradition that both his mother and father would each get the children a special birthday present and surprise the whole family. The car had been built to Carroll Shelby’s specifications with a Ford 427 engine that could generate 500 horsepower. Only 200
of the sports cars were built. The first day he drove it to school, he drew the envy of every kid in the eleventh-grade class at Cranbrook, and the private school’s parking lot was filled with exotic cars, even an occasional Camoradi Birdcage Maserati that one of the auto executives would bring home and let their kids drive to school. The difference was that the AC Cobra was his.

  The memories of Cranbrook drew Warner’s thoughts to Lake Jonah, a large cement swimming pool designed to look like a lake and occupying a prominent place on the campus behind the resident dorms. He had experienced sex for the first time on the balcony that overlooked the lake. She had been a senior and he was just starting his freshman year. He had been expecting more from the act and was disappointed; of course he had never admitted that to anyone, but there had been something missing. She had done just about everything to him in the five minutes the whole thing had lasted, but there was something big missing from it. He had figured out what it had been almost a year later when he had met a girl up north at their cabin, and after going together for nearly the whole summer, they had sex. The difference was simple: sex without love really didn’t amount to very much except a physical release and a lot of guilt.

  “It looks like the storm is letting up.” Woods slid over the wet sandbags and joined Warner. The first rays of sunlight were just breaking in the east. “Those clouds had blocked out everything. It’s nearly dawn.”

  “Wow! That was some heavy stuff.” Warner felt the erection pressing against his soaked fatigue pants. His thoughts of home had done more than entertain him during the storm.

  “Drop down in the bunker and change into some dry clothes, and I’ll stay up here until you get back.” Woods nodded down at the sealed trap door.

  Warner felt the pressure of his love muscle and knew that it was going to take awhile for it to decide on going soft again. It had been what seemed forever since he had gotten laid. “You go first.”