Black Market

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  Shaw had waited until it was close to midnight before he went over to the mess hall. The trash had been thrown in a burn pit behind the building, and the white sheets of butcher paper and bags of used paper plates guided him to the hole. The tin cans were difficult to locate and Shaw was getting nervous. The pit drew large numbers of rats and the rats attracted large snakes. The last thing he wanted to do was reach into the pile of trash. The toe of his jungle boot tapped an olive drab can lying on its side and he reached down and picked it up. The GI coffee can had been painted on the outside but the inside of the can reflected in the moonlight. Shaw nodded his head; it would serve his purpose. He hurried over to the five-gallon cans of diesel and gasoline stored near the mess hall shitters and filled the can halfway to the top; he didn’t want any of the gas sloshing out when he walked back to the recon company area.

  Voices filtered out around the closed plywood flaps that surrounded the orderly room. Shaw had seen the setup for the company commander before when he had gone to visit the first sergeant, who lived across the hall from the captain. It was too bad, but the senior NCO would probably die along with the officer.

  Shaw wondered who the captain was talking to in his room so late at night. He could hear the two men talking as he crawled under the hooch and placed the can of gasoline directly under the captain’s cot. Shaw turned his head and smiled up through the plywood floor as he slipped the white phosphorus grenade into the can of gas. He figured it would take an hour for the gasoline to dissolve the electrician’s tape and the safety handle to break free. Captain Youngbloode would be dead before morning.

  The two officers sat facing each other in the small room, sipping from their glasses of Johnny Walker Black.

  “I’m glad to hear that you’ve got a good assignment with the First Marine Regiment, even though I don’t like the idea that you’ll be out on the Khe Sanh Plain.”

  “Always playing the big brother, Yakub!” Fire took a small sip from the glass. They had been drinking for a couple of hours and he was beginning to feel a buzz. “I’ll be at the Rock Pile and Vandergrift Combat Base most of the time.”

  “I don’t want to lose you now after so many years of having to wipe your nose…” Yakub stopped talking and frowned.

  Fire sensed his brother’s uneasiness. “Is something wrong?”

  “No … I thought I heard something under the hooch, but it’s probably just a rat.”

  “So! Tell me Yakub!” Fire leaned back on the cot and rested his back against the wall. “Are you still communicating with that back-to-Africa group?”

  Yakub poured himself a little more of the good booze and reached in the mess hall pot for the few remaining chips of ice the first sergeant had scrounged up for them. “Yes, in fact I’m looking at some land right now in Liberia.”

  “Liberia? I thought you said that of all the African nations, Liberia would be the last one you’d go to.”

  “That was a high school boy talking! Since then I’ve learned that there aren’t that many black African countries that will allow a black American to immigrate. I was surprised when I started to really research the topic. Amin in Uganda wants me to come to Kampala and be his Army Commander.”

  “Uganda?” Fire was impressed.

  “I turned him down after reading an intelligence report on what he’s doing to his own people. It seems as soon as a black leader attains power, he goes back to his tribal loyalties and the minority tribes get slaughtered.” Yakub grinned a sad smile. “Minorities everywhere seem to get their asses kicked!”

  “What about Nigeria?” Fire finished his drink and set his glass upside-down. He was finished drinking for the night. “I hear they’ve got a big oil boom started.”

  “I have a letter pending with them, but there’s very little hope of being allowed to gain citizenship. They’re afraid of educated American blacks … probably because they think the only reason we’re coming over there is to take away their power.” Yakub smiled sheepishly. He was recalling a conversation he had had with his younger brother when he had been in high school. That was exactly the reason he wanted to go back to an African nation: to develop a political base and gain power.

  “I was hoping that you would have given up those ideas. You know it’s breaking Mom’s heart.” Fire yawned.

  “I know, but it’s just something I feel I have to do.” Captain Youngbloode became very serious. “I don’t have nothing against whites anymore. I would just rather live in an all-black community.”

  Lieutenant Fire Youngbloode didn’t agree with his older brother, and they had argued for years over his desire to go back to Africa. His father had worked very hard to ensure that his children got good educations, and the rest of the family had suffered when Yakub had been selected for West Point over white candidates. Mississippi was not a friendly place to advancing blacks, but the family thought that Yakub should invest his money in land in Mississippi and show them that a black man could win.

  “Hey little brother, this has been a good night. Let’s not end it in an old argument.” Yakub stood and stretched. “I’ve got to check the guards. Do you want to come along?”

  “Naw … I think I’ll just lie down and get some sleep.” Fire stretched out on the cot.

  “You sure?”

  Fire opened his eyes a little and smiled. “Are you afraid of the dark, big brother?”

  “Only when you’re not around. Come on!” Yakub slapped Fire’s boot.

  “Shit! You’d better make this a quick one.” Fire strapped on his pistol belt and followed his brother out of the hooch.

  “I want you to meet some of the members of RT Bad News.” Yakub caught the screen door so that it wouldn’t slam. “That was the team I told you about.”

  “This late at night?”

  “A couple of them should be on guard. They live in one of the fighting bunkers.”

  “I’m already impressed.”

  “You should be!” Yakub smiled. “My people don’t fuck around!”

  Woods splashed the lukewarm water from the basin over his face and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He stood behind the bunker with a dark green towel over his shoulder. The rest of the team were still sleeping, except for Kirkpat-rick who was still up top on guard. He had volunteered to pull the last shift so that they could get ready and leave with Shaw at first light for Qui Nhon.

  “Don’t use up all the water.” Kirkpatrick leaned over the edge of the bunker.

  “Since when do you wash up in the morning?” Woods dried his face and neck with the mildew-smelling towel.

  “Since I’ve decided that I’ll be riding in a hot fucking truck all day and will be eating three pounds of Vietnam before we get back.”

  “Wake up the team.” Woods slipped on his shirt and buttoned the front.

  Shaw kept looking out of his tent over at the orderly room. He had been up all night waiting for the explosion and nothing had happened.

  “Are you fucking sure you removed the safety pin?” Simpson was pissed because he had to get up so early in the morning, and hearing that the grenade hadn’t gone off was making his day begin poorly.

  “Yes, dammit!” He pointed over at his desk. “It’s right where I left it last night!”

  “That’s bright, Shaw! Real fucking bright, leaving the safety pin on your desk! How fucking dumb do you think these people are?” Simpson looked over and saw the small cotter-type pin lying out in the open. “If that damn thing had exploded, they would have looked at least a little for the person who had set it off.” Simpson saw the opened case of white phosphorus grenades with one of the cardboard shipping tubes missing. “You dumb ass!”

  Shaw spun around and glared at Simpson. “Who in the fuck are you calling a dumb ass!” The look of hate was well defined on his face.

  Simpson pointed at the safety pin. “Exhibit A.” He started laughing. “Exhibit B.” He pointed at the open case of grenades. “And if they find that unexploded white phosphorus grenade, Exhibit C!”
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  Shaw knew Simpson was right. He carried the case of grenades to the back of the tent and covered it with a tarp until he could get rid of it. He picked up the safety pin, went over to the edge of the tent, and dropped it between the dunnage. “There. Are you fucking happy now!”

  Simpson shook his head slowly. The guy was too fucking dumb to live, especially as his partner.

  “Look! They’re coming out of the hooch!” Shaw stepped back in the shadows of his entranceway. “The captain has someone with him.”

  “I think that’s his brother, a Marine lieutenant.”

  “SHIT!” Shaw stepped farther back into the shadows.

  “Now what?” Simpson spoke from his seat.

  “That Marine lieutenant is crawling under the hooch!” Shaw’s voice was about to break.

  Lieutenant Fire Youngbloode squatted down next to the wall and the row of sandbags that circled the orderly room and tried to look under the building. “Yakub, I’m sure I smelled gas all night long. Someone could have thrown some weapon-cleaning rags under there.”

  “Forget it. Let’s go to breakfast.”

  Fire started to stand up and then his Marine discipline got the better of him. “Hold on! It’ll just take a second to crawl under there and check. Gas rags are a fire hazard … you should know that.”

  “Hurry up.” Yakub resigned himself on waiting for his kid brother.

  Fire leaned sideways between the sandbags, dropped down in a push-up position so that he wouldn’t get his uniform dirty, and looked under the hooch. The light coming from the other side silhouetted the coffee can. “I found it!”

  “What?”

  “A gas can … someone…” Fire reached for the can but was a foot short. He tried scooting forward on his hands and reached out again, balancing himself on one hand and the toes of his boots. “I got it.” He grabbed the lip of the can with his fingers and started pulling it along the ground until he could get a good grip on it. The bumpy ground caused the gas to slosh out of the can and cover the back of Fire’s hand. “Shit!”

  “What happened?” Yakub’s voice reflected his disapproval.

  “I almost spilled the damn thing.”

  “Please! Don’t pull a Marine fuck-up and spill that stuff all over the place!”

  “Leave the Corps out of this. It’s not my fault you went to West Point…” Fire’s voice trailed off and then became alarmed. “Oh!”

  “What’s wrong?” Yakub took the three steps over to his brother and leaned over the sandbag wall. He looked directly down into the can. “Don’t tilt it!” He could see the base of the grenade pushed up against the side of the coffee can and the safety handle pressing against the other side. The can was too small and had prevented the safety handle from flipping up. Yakub realized instantly that the grenade couldn’t go off unless it fell out of the can. “Hand it straight up to me.”

  Fire obeyed his older brother. He had only glanced inside the can, had seen the grenade sitting in the gasoline, and didn’t realize that it was safe.

  Yakub took the can and reached down into the gas. He pushed the safety handle against the side of the grenade and removed it from the gasoline. He could see the small pieces of what remained of the electrician’s tape and quickly pieced together what had happened. “It looks like someone left me a present last night.” Rage started boiling up inside him. If the assassin had used a larger Number 10 can instead of the smaller coffee can, the homemade bomb would have worked very well and would have killed not only him but his little brother as well.

  “It looks like someone doesn’t like you, brother.” Fire poured the gasoline out onto the ground.

  “I agree with that, little brother … come on.”

  “Where we going?” Fire had to run to catch up to Yakub as he strode toward the company supply room.

  “Fuck! He’s coming this way and he’s carrying that fucking grenade!” Shaw rushed to the back of the supply tent and started making himself busy. Simpson smiled and lit a cigarette.

  Captain Youngbloode pushed the screen door open so hard that it slammed against the two-by-four supports.

  Shaw swallowed and looked up from the stack of C-rations he was counting. “Morning sir! Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes you can, Sergeant Shaw. Do you have a safety pin lying around that I can borrow?”

  Simpson almost started laughing.

  Captain Youngbloode glared at Shaw. He could see the fear in the fat man’s eyes and knew that Shaw had something to do with the attempted fragging.

  Woods sat in the back of the deuce and a half and watched Kirkpatrick. He could see that something had gone on between Simpson and Kirkpatrick that was bothering his teammate.

  Woods held out his package of Kools for Kirkpatrick to take one. “We should reach Qui Nhon before noon, even after having to wait on the engineers.”

  Kirkpatrick took the offered cigarette and produced a light for both of them. He inhaled deeply and glanced over at Shaw. The supply sergeant sat staring directly ahead of the truck, deep in thought.

  “I think you’re letting that mine back there bother you too much. This is a war.” Woods was referring to the three-quarter-ton truck they had passed back near Khu Pho, a small rice-growing village on the Song Da Mang. The vehicle had tried making it to Qui Nhon on the highway before the engineer mine sweep team had checked the road. The driver had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. A tipped-over ox cart blocked the road near Khu Pho and the small truck tried going around it and went off the asphalt onto the soft shoulder. A dud American 155mm artillery shell had been re-fused and rigged up as a mine. The front wheels of the vehicle were missing and one of the rear tires was still spinning when their deuce and a half came over a crest in the road. One of the GIs had been thrown clear of the truck and was trying to crawl away from the burning vehicle.

  “Yeah, I shouldn’t let that stuff get to me.” Kirkpatrick took another long drag from his cigarette and blinked when some of the ashes flew back in his face. “I think I knew one of those guys.” He nodded with his head back down the road.

  “Sorry.” Woods cupped his cigarette and took a drag.

  Kirkpatrick shrugged and looked over at Simpson, who was driving the vehicle. Woods could see that there was a hell of a lot more bothering him than the death of two American GIs.

  Simpson pulled the camouflage-painted truck over to the side of the road once they had entered the large logistics base and left it idling. The line into the refrigeration compound was a half-mile long, and it would be a good hour before they could process their paperwork and load up.

  “Simpson and I are going over and talk to a couple friends of mine. Woods, you stay with Kirkpatrick and watch the truck.” Shaw’s voice lacked a lot of its usual cocky confidence.

  “I wanted to go over to the nonperishable warehouse and check on the availability of some new special equipment.” Woods pointed with the barrel of his CAR-15 at the long building.

  Shaw didn’t want to get in an argument and was happy that the questionable noncommissioned officer was going somewhere away from the meeting he was planning on having with the yardmaster of the refrigeration compound. “Go ahead, but relieve Kirkpatrick with the truck.” Shaw pointed to the gate the trucks were going through into the yard.

  Woods nodded and left them standing in the shade of the vehicle. The tin and wood warehouse contained a large air-conditioned office that housed the logistics center’s computer. A constant updating of the contents of the supply depot was made, and an accurate accounting was supposed to be forwarded to the commander of the depot and then on to the logistics command in Saigon.

  Woods stopped and waited for someone to stop working and help him as he stood at the main counter. An effeminate specialist fifth class looked up from the microfiche he was working on and smiled when he saw the handsome NCO.

  “Can I help you, Sergeant?” The thin clerk strolled over to where Woods stood.

  “Yes, or I hope so.�
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  “Well, if it has anything to do with this depot, I’m your man.” The soldier tapped the long fingernail on his right pinkie against the Formica counter.

  “I’m looking for a new weapon system called a starlight scope.”

  “Do you know the federal stock number?” The man’s voice was too soft.

  “Sorry, just the nomenclature.”

  “Never you mind. If Teddy can’t find it, no one can!” He placed his hand on his hip in the feminine manner, with the thumb pointed forward and his fingers resting on his buttocks.

  “Thanks, it’s very important.”

  The clerk paused and looked at Woods over the top of his gold-framed glasses before going back to his microfiche files. He spent less than a minute flipping through a thick index and then wasted the time to glance up at Woods before pulling out his high priority file.

  “Here it is under sensitive issue items … We have exactly fifty in stock and four hundred special batteries for them.”

  “Have you issued any to the First Cav?”

  The clerk flipped through another stack of microfiche and released a high-pitched sigh before stepping over to a nearby computer terminal and typing in his query. He kept glancing up at Woods and smiling each time he made eye contact. “Ah—interesting! None of them have been issued and they’re all on special hold for the Special Forces Command in Nha Trang.”

  “Are you sure? How about another depot having them?” David was puzzled.

  “No, I saw on the microfiche that we’re the first ones to receive them. That’s why the Special Forces people want a hold on them. They were shipped to us by mistake.”

  “Are they stored here?” Woods pointed out of the office at the rows of supplies.

  “Yes…”

  “Can we go back and check on how many are actually here?” Woods smiled his best smile at the clerk.

  “We’re not supposed to allow outsiders back in the bins…” The clerk smiled and winked at Woods.

  He swallowed and winked back. He had to get back in the warehouse and see for himself if there were fifty starlight scopes on hand.

  “All right. I go on break in a couple of minutes, if you can wait for me.”