Black Market

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “A general?” Even Sanchez was impressed.

  “Yes … and now … he’s a high school janitor.” Koski’s words carried the anguish outside his body. “A broken man who sits on the porch all day and stares out in the street until he has to go to work, and when he comes home … he goes to his chair and stares out in the street until he goes to bed.” Koski swallowed. “I told him before I came here that I would regain our family honor.” He slipped the CIB in his pocket and dropped down through the hole in the roof. Warner and Sanchez could hear him state, inside the dark interior, “AND I WILL.” The sound of a fist smashing against a sandbag echoed back up through the hole.

  Arnason met Woods by the picnic tables outside the mess hall. Woods was sipping from a Styrofoam cup of grape Kool-Aid that had been watered down in the huge pot by the melting block of ice that jutted out of the purple liquid.

  “What did the captain have to say?” Woods spoke around the cup.

  “He believes us.”

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Arnason grabbed Woods’s wrist and tilted the cup toward him. He shook his head. “You’d think they could get it down pat, but they still fuck up even Kool-Aid in that fucking mess hall! I’m glad I’m on a C-ration diet.”

  Woods grinned. He knew that Arnason refused to eat in the mess hall and lived totally off C-rations, sundries, and French bread when he could get it. “What are you going to do when you get back to the States and have to eat human food?” “I’ll fucking worry about that when the time comes.” Arnason sat down on the edge of the wooden picnic table. “Did you get put on Shaw’s resupply detail?”

  “Yep, the first sergeant posted tomorrow’s detail list and Warner, Kirkpatrick, and I are on it.”

  Arnason frowned. “Is Kirk still selling dope with Simpson?”

  Woods shook his head. “No … I don’t think so. His buddy from New York’s death has really shook him up. You knew that. Wherever you saw Brown, there Kirkpatrick was. Shit, I think they even shared the same women down at the steam baths.” Woods finished the little grape drink remaining in his cup and added, “Of course, not at the same time!”

  Arnason chuckled. “You never know about those kinky New York types—”

  “Speaking of steam baths, I think I’ll take Warner to one tomorrow if we have some extra time.”

  “Fine with me. Just remember what you’re going along with Shaw for!”

  “No problem. I’ve worked Shaw’s resupply detail before, remember?”

  “I want evidence, David … evidence!”

  “I know that Shaw had something to do with Daryl Mas-ters’s death, or that guy who was up in the tower did!”

  “Don’t you remember what he looked like?”

  “No, but I’ll never forget his voice. It sounded like someone rattling pebbles in a tin can. Real rough and wavering.”

  “That’s nice to know, but Shaw knows his name.” Arnason looked around the area for anyone who might be eavesdropping on their conversation.

  A sergeant from one of the other teams left the mess hall through the side door. “Hey, Arnason. That was a good mission you guys pulled off up at Due Co. Whatcha trying to do, show off for the old man?”

  Arnason smiled. “Gotta make my brownie points somehow.”

  “I hear the old man is letting your team wear a special kind of headgear.”

  “Yeah, black drive-on caps.”

  Woods tapped Arnason’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get back to the bunker.”

  Arnason nodded but gave Woods a sharp look. “What time are you leaving for that detail?”

  “First light.” Woods talked as he walked. “I want to try and catch some sleep this afternoon before guard duty tonight.”

  The sergeant who had been talking to Arnason set his cup of strong coffee down on the edge of the picnic table. He waited until Woods was out of hearing range. “The first sergeant told me that you made sergeant first class this month.”

  “Shit!” Arnason huffed. “I’ve only been an E-6 for a year.”

  Jealousy was in the sergeant’s voice. “That’s the rumor … You made E-7 and you’ve only got a year in grade. The division commander went to bat for you up at MACV.”

  “Rumors will get you fucked up.” Arnason glared at the staff sergeant.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Arnason.”

  “Sure.” The tone in Arnason’s voice ended the conversation. He didn’t like gossip and he had never liked the NCO talking to him. The man was unreliable and there were rumors that he would report false locations when he went out on patrol. He would say that he was in his assigned AO and would really be just outside the camp or in a safe area. The NCO drifted away toward the NCO Club and Arnason sat on the picnic table thinking about his debriefing on the Due Co mission.

  The team had performed perfectly and he was very proud of them. Captain Youngbloode had put the whole team in for a valor award and had convinced the battalion commander that Koski deserved a Distinguished Service Cross. It had been an uphill battle because the battalion commander wanted to give him the award for leading the team. Youngbloode turned the coveted valor award down and Arnason knew why; he had not led the team. The agreement he had made with him was secret, and Arnason and Woods had been the team leaders. Arnason really admired the captain because a DSC would have really cemented his career and would have placed him ahead of his West Point peers. It took a lot of guts to turn the award down and fight for an enlisted man to get it.

  Arnason relived the firefight in his mind for the hundredth time. He knew that he couldn’t have done much differently and they hadn’t lost a single man. Luck had been riding on their side and he knew it. The decision to let Warner take the point was the smartest thing he could have done. That boy was amazing, and the story of his direction-finding ability was already becoming a legend in the brigade.

  The American medical supplies on the NVA truck really bothered him, and the new piece of equipment they had recovered was even worse. American units hadn’t even been issued the new starlight scopes—a sniper scope that could turn night into virtually a light green daylight with just a little help from the stars. The scope would change the way the NVA attacked camps at night, and it would definately end the night probes by sapper units. What bothered Arnason was that the North Vietnamese had the scopes before the American infantry units!

  Arnason smiled to himself.

  He was very proud of his team. He had a real rainbow recon squad that represented America almost to a T: A Polack, a Mexican, a black Puerto Rican, a WASP, and a college dropout. The team didn’t look like much, especially Warner, but they damn sure could function and fight!

  The Special Forces commander at Due Co had sent the China Boy Battalion to sweep the area the firefight had been in and they had found thirty-eight dead NVA and a grave that contained another seventeen bodies a couple of miles away. The truck had burned to a cinder and there wasn’t anything left to recover, except the scope that Koski had hidden in the bamboo. The prize of the whole mission was the map the NVA officer had been carrying in the truck. It showed the secret NVA highway drawn neatly in black ink. The NVA road wove around major American and ARVN bases and when it could, it touched Highway 19 and they used that until they came to another outpost. The map also showed a major north-south highway that linked in with the Ho Chi Minh Trail farther north.

  The American command in Saigon had already launched major air and ground attacks against the roads and the NVA losses in supplies and men were staggering. The capture of one little map had caused it all.

  “Sergeant, whatever you’re thinking about has to be good!” The deep voice came from over his shoulder.

  Arnason turned on his seat and looked at one of the blackest Marine lieutenants he had ever seen. The officer wasn’t a little black, he was black black. “Morning sir.” Arnason slipped off his seat and saluted the officer.

  “By the looks of that smile you were wearing, you must hav
e been thinking about your wife or girlfriend…”

  “Neither, sir … something better.”

  The lieutenant raised his eyebrows in mock shock at what could be better than women and decided it would be wiser to change the subject, to the reason he had come to An Khe. “Could you tell me where a Captain Yakub Youngbloode works? He’s supposed to be assigned here at An Khe.”

  “Yakub?”

  “Yes, our father had an imagination. He named me Firecracker because I was born on the Fourth of July.”

  “Captain Youngbloode is your brother, sir?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a free day and don’t have to report in to my unit up in Da Nang until tomorrow. I thought I’d try and look him up.”

  “He’s my commander. Come on and I’ll take you to his hooch.” Arnason nodded in the direction of the orderly room.

  “Thanks a lot, Sergeant! I thought that I would miss seeing him.”

  “You’re lucky sir. He just got back from a mission.” Arnason led the way over to the building and stopped in front of the captain’s private entrance. “Here it is.”

  The lieutenant looked up at the wooden nameplate. “The Black Tiger?”

  “Yes sir … one bad ass, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  The door to the hooch flew open and Captain Youngbloode rushed out. He had heard his younger brother’s voice from inside his office. “FIRE! Man is it good seeing you!”

  The brothers hugged each other and Arnason quietly walked away to give them a little privacy.

  Sergeant Shaw walked back and forth between the rows of stacked supplies and bundles of jungle fatigues in the back of the company supply room. He was livid with anger after receiving the message from the first sergeant about the captain’s request to review all of the money order requests for the company for the past two years. The captain had to be on to something. Shaw paced and frowned. He knew something had to be done to stop the officer, because a cursory review of that file would reveal that he had shipped hundreds of thousands of dollars to banks back in the States. Poker was legal in Vietnam, and all poker winnings a soldier wanted to ship back to the States had to be approved by a commanding officer and verified. Shaw had used the excuse that he won the money playing poker to ship back his black-market profits, but an investigation would reveal that he shipped back more money a month than the recon company’s payroll.

  “Relax, Sarge.” Simpson was stretched out on a bundle of light blankets with his arms folded behind his head. “So he checks back a couple of months. So what! You’ve a reputation for playing a lot of poker. He has to prove that you’ve done something wrong.”

  “Prove, shit!” Shaw bit his cigar in half and spat the fine pieces of tobacco onto the wooden pallets he used for dunnage. “All he has to do is reassign me to one of the recon teams and my operation is finished!”

  “You are an infantryman, Sergeant.” Simpson grinned like a caged gremlin.

  “And you are a drug pusher!”

  “Let’s not get too personal there, Sergeant.”

  “Fuck you, Simpson.” Shaw knew the drug dealer’s enforcer had been shipped back to the States and besides that, the two of them were dependent upon each other.

  “You know, when I was running with Young Boys Incorporated we would have killed your white ass for saying something like that.” Simpson’s words were bare of emotion; he was simply stating a fact.

  “Yeah! Well you’re not back in Detroit and you’re not with that punk kiddie gang anymore!”

  Simpson glared at the NCO.

  “Where’s Kirkpatrick?” Shaw looked at his watch.

  “He’ll be here.” Simpson heard someone enter the front of the supply room and rolled over on his side to look and see who had entered. “Well, speak of the devil…”

  Kirkpatrick walked slowly back among the stacked supplies. “What do you want me for?”

  “We’re partners, aren’t we?” Simpson sat up on the bundle and lit a cigarette.

  “I told you after Brown got zapped that I wasn’t working no more drugs.” Kirkpatrick moved back a step so that he could keep both Shaw and Simpson in his sight.

  “Relax! We aren’t going to mess with you. We just want some information.” Shaw peeled the cellophane off another cigar and shoved the unlit tobacco in his mouth. “What happened when your team was up at Due Co?”

  “Read the after-action report.” Kirkpatrick’s voice remained cautious.

  Shaw pointed at the young soldier using the wet end of his cigar. “You’d better start fucking listening, boy! If I could get my hands on that damn report, I would! It’s classified Top Secret, and it has a special need-to-know seal on it.”

  “Smart men cooperate with their friends, Bro…” Simpson grinned. “I let you out of my operation because there’s no problem finding people willing to make a lot of money over here, but anybody can get their ass fragged in Vietnam.”

  Kirkpatrick smiled with his lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t need to say anything. Simpson understood.

  “Enough bullshit! What happened at Due Co?” Shaw hiked up his pants over his ample gut.

  “We killed a lot of gooks and blew up an NVA supply truck that was carrying some medical supplies and a new scope of some kind.”

  “Medical supplies?” Shaw was curious.

  “Yeah, American medical supplies.” Kirkpatrick couldn’t help but see the guilty look flash across Shaw’s face. “That’s why the after-action report is classified … Why, do you know something about it?”

  Shaw swallowed. He couldn’t hide the guilt. Simpson had introduced him to the South Vietnamese he bought his drugs from, and they had asked him about getting them a shipment of meat. He had made a large profit and from there it had just developed into filling a shopping list for them. The medical supplies were supposed to have been for a civilian hospital in Pleiku. He had no idea where the starlight scopes had come from; it hadn’t been him.

  Simpson saw the look on the sergeant’s face and realized that he was giving them away. “You can get your ass out of here, Kirk. Keep your mouth shut!”

  Kirkpatrick shrugged his shoulders. “About what?”

  “Smart boy!” Simpson winked.

  Shaw waited until Kirkpatrick had left the tent. “They were motherfucking Vietcong!”

  A light coating of sweat broke out over Simpson’s forehead. He was a drug dealer and a damn good one, but he wasn’t a fucking traitor! The black soldier from Detroit slipped off the bundle of blankets and snapped his head to one side to remove the sweat. A lot of questions were answered about his two friends, especially their willingness to always come down in price on the dope rather than lose him as a customer, and their pressure for him to push heroin to the newly arriving troops. They wanted him to get as many American soldiers addicted to the hard drugs as he could; in fact, they would give him a bonus every time he had increased his shipments.

  “Those fucking South Vietnamese businessmen are working for the Vietcong! Man, this is bad shit … bad shit.” Shaw knew that if they got caught selling black-market items to Vietcong agents, they would be put in a federal prison for life, maybe even get the death sentence.

  “It looks that way, but they might just be businessmen like they said they were. We can find out easy enough!” Simpson hated being taken for a sucker by anyone.

  “How?” Shaw was visibly .worried. Even his black-marketing friends would turn against him if they suspected he was supplying food and equipment to the enemy.

  “Do you still have those silenced .22s?”

  “I issued Arnason four of them. There should be two or three left.”

  “Good. Tomorrow when we visit my friends during your supply run, you carry one of the pistols and so will I. The shack city is too small a place to use an M-16 without having it known all over the fucking base, and there are too many eyes.” Simpson twisted his lips nervously and added, “Get me one now.”

  Shaw left the hot supply storage area and went over to th
e large military safe where he kept his records and special supply items. There were three of the small cardboard boxes inside and ten boxes of .22-caliber long shells. He removed one of the pistols and four extra clips. Sweat left pie-plate-sized circles under his arms. He knew they would have to do something about the captain too. A case of white phosphorus grenades was stacked on top of three crates of M-16 ammunition near the entrance to die supply room. Shaw tore open the case and removed one of the cardboard tubes. He returned to where Simpson was waiting and handed him the High Standard .22 caliber pistol with the factory-attached silencer.

  “It’s very accurate and quiet.” Shaw went over to where he kept his tools and removed a roll of black plastic electrician’s tape.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Simpson watched Shaw tear open the tube and remove the gray can, similar in size to a tall can of beer, and wrap the black tape around the safety handle eight or nine times. Then the sergeant pulled the safety pin.

  “Here.” He handed the grenade to Simpson. “Go over to the mess hall when it gets dark and get one of those large tin cans that dehydrated food comes in. You won’t be bothered because a lot of the men use the cans for cigarette butts.” Shaw ground his teeth and then continued. “Fill it three-quarters of the way full of gasoline and slip it under Youngbloode’s hooch, right under his bunk, and then put the grenade in the gas.”

  “Why in the fuck don’t you do it!” Simpson didn’t like taking risks like that but worse yet, he didn’t like the idea of fragging a black officer.

  “If they see me anywhere near that orderly room they’ll nail my ass!” Shaw hissed the words.

  “Bullshit! You’re an NCO, and a sergeant has a better reason to hang around the back of the orderly room than a soldier!” Simpson had a point. “Besides, I’m taking care of the VC businessmen!”

  “You gutless motherfucker!” Shaw knew that he was stuck with the task of fragging the captain. “You had better take care of them tomorrow!”

  “You get the captain and I’ll handle those motherfucking commies.”