Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  Neither of us wanted to be overdramatic, so we just took each other’s hand without any hugging or smooching. She said, “How did it go?”

  “Fine. I’m free to roam. How’d you do with the ticket?”

  “I’ve got you booked on the train to Nha Trang.”

  “Great. You’re terrific.”

  “But the ticket isn’t here yet, and it’s a 10:15 departure.”

  “How far is the station?”

  “About twenty minutes, this time of day. So, what did Colonel Mang say?”

  “I’m re-educated.”

  She smiled. “Did you keep your smart mouth shut?”

  “I tried. He said the prostitutes, the drugs, the karaoke bars, and you would soon be history.” I added, “Not you by name, of course.”

  “You know, it doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

  “It does, if you’re Colonel Mang. He’s got a serious double-think problem going in his head, and I’m afraid he may have a nervous breakdown. Meanwhile, when is my ticket going to arrive?”

  “Any moment. And thank you for that snow globe. Is that for me?”

  “Yes. It’s not much, but you don’t need much.”

  “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Precisely.” I said, “I’ve got to settle my bill here—”

  “It’s done.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “It could have been, and now you have time to tell me about the twenty-dollar massage charge.” She smiled.

  “I overtipped.” We let that one go, and I said, “Colonel Mang wants your travel agent to call him tout de suite and report in.” I added, “Sorry if that causes a problem. He insisted.”

  “That’s okay. Vidotour reports everything, but the private travel agents don’t, unless they’re specifically told to. I’ll call her.”

  “Does Bill use the same travel agent?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “Because he was the one who called the travel agent on my behalf. I didn’t want to use your name.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . it doesn’t matter. I’ll call him and straighten it out.”

  “Tell him I thank him for getting me out of Saigon. That will make him happy.”

  She didn’t respond to that and said, “Did Colonel Mang give you any sort of note, or anything in writing?”

  I showed her my note from Colonel Mang and asked, “What’s it say?”

  She looked at it and gave it back to me. “It says, ‘Register the address of Paul Brenner, American, and his arrival and departure, and means of transportation to and from your location.’ ”

  I nodded. What the note didn’t say was, “Report this to the Security Police,” but that was understood.

  Susan said, “It used to be common for Westerners to register with the Immigration Police. You used to need a travel permit in addition to your passport and visa. Travel has become less restrictive in the last few years.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Apparently not. Let me make a few calls.” She added, “Maybe someone can get a fix on Colonel Nguyen Qui Mang.”

  She walked off toward the door where the signal would be better and made a few calls. I hate to leave other people holding the bag for me, and I never do that in my private life, but when I’m on an assignment, Rule Number One is the mission comes first, and Paul Brenner comes second, and everyone else is last. That didn’t include Susan, of course, and probably shouldn’t have included Bill Stanley. It was no big deal, anyway, though I noticed that Susan seemed a little concerned or maybe annoyed.

  Susan returned from her cell phone calls and said, “It’s all straightened out.”

  “And Bill was pleased that I gave his name to Colonel Mang?”

  She said, “You could have used my name.”

  “No, I couldn’t have. I don’t want Colonel Mang questioning you and finding inconsistencies in my conversation with him.”

  “I thought you were being chivalrous.”

  “Spell that.”

  I noticed a kid of about twelve coming through the door. Susan walked over to him and said something. He gave her an envelope, she gave him a tip, then said something to my friend Lan, and motioned me toward the door.

  Things started to move fast now, and Susan and I were out on the sidewalk. She said, “That’s my taxi, and your bags are in the trunk. Let’s move.”

  We got into the taxi, and Susan spoke to the driver, and off we went.

  I said to her, “You don’t have to come to the station—”

  “It will go much faster if I’m with you, unless you’ve learned to read and speak Vietnamese in the last few hours.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll take the ticket.”

  “I’ll hold it. I need to show it at the station. You don’t actually have a seat, but I got you a car number. It’s a second-class coach and will be filled with Viets, any one of whom will give up his seat for five bucks, and stand. You can’t do that in First Class because they’re mostly Westerners, and they’ll tell you to fuck off. Okay?”

  I said to Susan, “When you get back to your office, I need you to fax or e-mail my firm and tell them I’m off to Nha Trang. Tell them Colonel Mang wants me to report to the Immigration Police there, but I don’t believe the mission is compromised, though I may be under surveillance. Okay?”

  She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “I thought they’d be on pins and needles waiting to hear the outcome of your meeting, so I called the consulate when I made those other calls. I kept it short, in case the call was monitored. I got hold of the guy there who knows about this. I think he’s the resident CIA guy. I just said, ‘He’s free to travel. Wire his firm.’ Okay?”

  I thought about this and said, “Okay. But you e-mail or fax them with a full report when you get to the office.”

  “Will do.”

  The train station was north of the center, and within fifteen minutes we pulled up near the entrance amid dozens of taxis, buses, and swarms of people.

  Susan gave the driver a five, and we got out as he popped the trunk. I pulled my bags out of the trunk and noticed a big yellow backpack in the trunk. Susan pulled it out and slammed the trunk closed, then put on the backpack. She said, “Okay, let’s move.”

  “Uh . . . hold on.”

  “Come on, Paul. We’ll miss the train.”

  We? I followed her into the station, pulling my suitcase through the big central terminal. Susan looked at the display board and said, “Track 5. That’s this way. Let’s move.”

  We hurried across the open area crowded with travelers, and I said, “We can say good-bye here.”

  She replied, “I hate good-byes.”

  “Susan—”

  “I feel responsible for getting you to Nha Trang. Then you’re on your own. Okay?”

  I didn’t reply.

  We got to the track, and Susan showed the woman at the gate two tickets. They exchanged some words, Susan gave her a dollar, and the woman waved us through.

  We hurried along the platform, and Susan said, “Car 9. That’s at the far end, of course.”

  My watch said 10:12, and the conductor was calling all aboard in Vietnamese, which could have been funny if I was in a better mood.

  We got to Car 9, and I hefted my suitcase on board, then jumped on and pulled Susan up after me. We stood there in the end vestibule compartment, and I was huffing, puffing, and sweating.

  The conductor gave the last all-aboard, the doors closed, and the train started to move. We stood there and looked at each other as the train began gaining speed, moving away from the station.

  I asked, “How much do I owe you for the ticket?”

  She smiled. “We’ll settle later.”

  I said, “I really didn’t see this coming.”

  “Of course, you did. You’re a spy. You saw that I wasn’t dressed for the office. I held the tickets. I already called the consulate. I stopped mentioning that I wanted to go with you. I came to the station. I held a
taxi with your luggage in the trunk—along with mine. So what was your first clue?”

  “All of the above, I guess.”

  “So, stop acting surprised.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you want me along?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll only stay in Nha Trang a few days, then I’m going back to Saigon.”

  “Did you get a hotel?”

  “No, we’ll find that hotel you stayed at on your R&R—if it’s still standing.”

  I looked through the window of the vestibule door and saw that the coach was packed with people, luggage, crates, and just about everything except farm animals. I said, “We may be better off standing.”

  She said, “It’s five or six hours to Nha Trang. We’ll buy two seats.”

  The train was passing through the northern outskirts of Saigon, and I saw a jet fighter, a Russian-made MiG, coming in to land at what must have been Bien Hoa Airbase, my former home away from home.

  A conductor came into the small vestibule, and Susan and he spoke. She counted out twelve singles, and he left. She said to me, “He’ll do the deal. He keeps the change.”

  The tracks swung east now, toward the coast, and the Saigon sprawl rolled on with the train. I could see houses that were little more than shacks, and I remembered these from 1972, when almost a million refugees from the countryside had crowded into the relative safety of Saigon.

  Susan said to me, “I really love the beach. Do you have a bathing suit?”

  “Yes. Bathing suits in your luggage look touristy to government snoops going through your things.”

  “You spies are really clever.”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “That’s right.” She smiled. “I packed light, as you can see. Just a few days. I brought my swimsuit. The beach is supposed to be magnificent.”

  “Is the beach topless?”

  She smiled. “Always thinking. No, you can’t do that here. They go nuts. But at Vung Tau there are secluded spots where the French go to swim and sunbathe in the nude. But if you get caught by the local fuzz, you’ve got a problem.”

  “Did you ever get caught?”

  “I never went topless or nude. I’d love to, but I’m a resident, so I can’t claim ignorance.” She asked, “So you had an R&R in Nha Trang?”

  “Yes. May 1968. The weather was good.”

  “I thought you went someplace out of the country for R&R.”

  “There were three-day in-country R&Rs available to people who did something to deserve it.”

  “I see. And what did you do to deserve an in-country R&R?”

  “I invented a new recipe for chili.”

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I hope in the next few days you’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me about your experiences here.”

  I replied, “And maybe you’ll tell me why you’re here and why you stay.”

  She didn’t reply.

  The train moved on, east across the Saigon River, through a landscape of rice paddies and villages.

  I looked at Susan and saw that she was looking at me. We both smiled. She said, “What would you have done without me?”

  I replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll find out after you go back to Saigon.”

  She said, “After three days with me, you’ll be good to go.”

  “After three days with you, I’ll need a three-day R&R.”

  She smiled. “You keep up pretty good for an old guy. Do you swim?”

  “Like a fish.”

  “Hike?”

  “Like a mountain goat.”

  “Dance?”

  “Like John Travolta.”

  “Snore?”

  I smiled.

  She said, “Sorry. Just teasing.”

  The train moved on, away from old Saigon, away from the new Ho Chi Minh City, north toward Nha Trang, and back to May 1968.

  BOOK III

  Nha Trang

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The conductor led us through the crowded coach to seats vacated by two young Viet guys. I threw my suitcase on the overhead luggage rack, then sat with my overnight bag stuffed under my seat. Susan sat beside me on the aisle and squeezed her backpack under her legs.

  The seat was wood, and it had enough legroom for an amputee. The width was okay for the two of us, but almost all the other seats had three people sitting in them, plus babies and kids riding laps.

  We were on the right, so we’d have a view of the South China Sea at some point as we traveled north. There was no air-conditioning, but a few of the windows were open, and small fans mounted in the corners kept the cigarette smoke circulating.

  I said, “Maybe we should have taken a car and driver.”

  “Highway One can be a problem. Also, this is a good experience for you.”

  “Thanks for your interest in my character development.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  I asked her, “What is the fascination here for all these young backpackers?”

  “Well, Vietnam is cheap. Then you have sex and drugs. That’s pretty fascinating.”

  “Right.”

  “Kids talk to one another via e-mail, and this has become a hot place.”

  “It was pretty hot when I was here.” I added, “It just seems a little incongruous for a totalitarian state to be so attractive to all these young tourists.”

  “They don’t think like you do. Half of them don’t know this place is run by Communists, and the other half don’t care. You care. That’s your generation. That was your big boogeyman. These kids are into world peace through pot. International understanding through intercourse.”

  “And your generation? What’s your take on Vietnam?”

  “Money.”

  “Do you ever feel that there’s something missing in your life? Like something to believe in or to live for beyond yourself ?”

  “That sounds like an antagonistic question, though maybe I need to think more about that.” She added, “We live in incredibly dull times. I think I would like to have been a college student in the Sixties. But I wasn’t. So, a lot of this emptiness and shallowness is not my fault, or the fault of my generation.”

  “Do the times make the generation, or does the generation make the times?”

  “I have a hangover. Can we make idle chitchat?”

  We chatted about the landscape.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the hot, humid air, and the rail felt as though it had been torn up by the Viet Cong and never repaired. How bad could Highway One be?

  About sixty kilometers out of Saigon, the train made its first stop at a place called Xuan Loc, which I knew had been the location of the Black Horse Base Camp, headquarters of the Eleventh Armored Cavalry. I said to Susan, “The gentleman called K, whom we communicated with in your office, was stationed here in ’68.”

  “Really? Why didn’t he come back here with you?”

  “That’s a good question. He would have enjoyed Colonel Mang. They’re cast from the same mold.”

  People got off at Xuan Loc, and people got on. Balance and harmony were achieved, and the train moved on. I said, “Xuan Loc was the site of the last stand of the South Vietnamese army before the fall of Saigon.”

  Susan yawned and replied, “I’m too vapid and self-centered to care.”

  I think I’d pissed her off. Or maybe it was the generation gap. I suddenly felt middle-aged.

  It had been a long night and an early morning for both of us, and Susan fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. Within a few minutes, I, too, was asleep.

  We both awoke as the train approached Cam Ranh Bay, about four hours from Saigon. I could see the huge bay, and also part of the former American naval installation, and some gray warships at anchor. Farther north on a peninsula that formed the bay had been the big American airbase. Susan was awake now, and I asked her, “Have you ever been here?”

  She said, “No, no one comes here. It’s mostly off-limits.�
�� She asked me, “Were you ever here?”

  “Once. Briefly in ’72. I was on a military police detail to pick up a couple of soldiers who’d gotten into some trouble. We had to take them down to LBJ—that’s Long Binh Jail—outside Bien Hoa. Back in ’68, when Johnson was still President, we used to say about guys going to jail, ‘LBJ got you once, now LBJ got you again.’ Get it?”

  “Is this in the history books?”

  “Probably not.”

  I looked out the window again. The American naval and air installations at Cam Ranh Bay were considered among the best in the Pacific at that time. After 1975, the Soviets were handed the whole complex by the new regime. I asked Susan, “Any Russians still here?”

  “I’m told there are some left. But mostly the Vietnamese navy uses the place.” She added, “It’s a deepwater port, and it would make a great commercial port for container ships and oil tankers, but Hanoi has pretty much banned all development in the area. I don’t think you’d be allowed to visit the base unless you want to get shot.”

  “That’s okay.” That was two places now—Bien Hoa and Cam Ranh Bay—where I couldn’t go home again.

  The train stopped at Cam Ranh Bay station. Only a few people got off, and the people getting on were mostly Vietnamese sailors and airmen, and most of them jammed into the vestibule.

  Susan took a half-liter bottle of water out of her backpack, opened it, and drank, then passed it on to me.

  The train moved out and continued north.

  Now and then I could see a bomb crater, a derelict tank, a few dilapidated sandbag bunkers, or a French watchtower. But mostly the war seemed to have been erased from the landscape, though probably not from the minds of the people who had lived through it, myself included.

  Susan took a container of yogurt out of her bag and a plastic spoon. “Want some?”

  I hadn’t eaten since the hamburger in the Q-Bar, but I’d rather starve to death than eat yogurt. I said, “No, thanks.”

  She spooned the stuff into her mouth.

  I asked, “Does this train have a dining car?”

  “Of course. You go through the bar car, then the panoramic observation car, and you get to the dining car.”