Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  “You’re upsetting my karma, Colonel. Change the subject.”

  “You do not like any of my subjects.”

  “Try again.”

  “Perhaps I should try at police headquarters in Hanoi.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t understand bluffing very well, and he seemed surprised. He cleared his throat and said, “In due time, Mr. Brenner.”

  I looked at my watch.

  He said, “Am I keeping you from an appointment?”

  “You’re keeping me from my dinner.”

  He ignored that and asked Susan, “Are you married to another American?”

  She replied, “Why don’t you check my work visa application?”

  “I did. You stated you were unmarried.”

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  He added, “And there seems to be no evidence of a husband in your apartment.” He smiled.

  Susan stared at him. I mean, this is the lady who had a little fit when she realized someone had been in her hotel room in Nha Trang. Now she finds out that Colonel Mang has been through her apartment. She took a deep breath and said something to him in Vietnamese. It was a short sentence, in a soft voice, but whatever she said, Colonel Mang’s face tightened like someone was sticking something up his ass. I had requested that the conversation be in English, but sometimes you need to use the native language to say, “Fuck you, asshole.”

  I looked at Colonel Mang, who was undoubtedly thinking ahead to a time when he could speak to us separately with the help of electric shocks to the genitals and breasts.

  I was waiting for him to ask me about New Year’s Eve at the Phams’, or Sunday, New Year’s Day, with Mr. Anh, but he wasn’t asking, which worried me more than if he had. It occurred to me that if Colonel Mang were very clever, he’d be purposely giving me the impression he was barking up the wrong tree regarding the FULRO. In fact, he may know something about my real purpose here, though there was no way he could know—except if he’d arrested Mr. Anh.

  I actually wanted him to ask me about Saturday and Sunday, but instead, he brought up a much worse subject. He looked directly at me and played his trump card. He said, “Eventually we will discover how you traveled from Nha Trang to Hue. We will also discover if you have any knowledge of an automobile accident that occurred on Highway One outside Nha Trang, in which two police officers were killed.”

  I looked him right in the eye and said, “Colonel, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. But you’ve accused me of everything from itinerary violations to sexual misdeeds, spying, being in contact with the FULRO, and now something about an automobile accident. This is outrageous. I won’t stand here one more second and listen to this.”

  I took Susan’s arm and walked away.

  Colonel Mang shouted, “Stop! Do not take one more step.”

  I let go of Susan’s arm and walked directly up to Colonel Mang, very close.

  We looked into each other’s eyes, and he said to me in a quiet voice, “I could shoot both of you right here and now, and throw your bodies into that moat for the dogs to eat.”

  “You could try. But you’d better be very fast with your gun if you’re going to stand this close to me.”

  Colonel Mang took a step back, and I took a step toward him. He reached for his gun, and Susan shouted, “No!” She yelled something in Vietnamese, rushed toward us, and grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away from Mang.

  I looked over Colonel Mang’s shoulder and saw the two goons running across the field.

  Colonel Mang took another step back, heard the sounds of running footsteps behind him, and motioned for the two men to stop, which they did.

  He took another step back and said to both of us, “You have threatened an officer of the Socialist Republic, and for that I could arrest you and have you imprisoned for ten years.” He looked at Susan, “Correct?”

  Susan replied, “You don’t need an excuse or a charge, and you know it.”

  He looked at her and said, “You have been in this country for far too long, Miss Weber. It may be time for you to leave.”

  My sentiments exactly.

  But Susan replied, “I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave.”

  “You will leave when I have you expelled.”

  “Go ahead and try it.”

  He glared at her and said, “In fact, Miss Weber, it may be time for your whole company to leave.”

  She sort of smirked and said, “My company, Colonel, has more influence in Hanoi than you do.”

  Colonel Mang did not like this. I could almost see him pining for the days when a pistol shot in the head resolved annoying problems. But there was a new reality out there, and neither Colonel Mang nor I completely understood it.

  Colonel Mang took a deep breath and said to Susan, “Hanoi is a long distance from Ho Chi Minh City. If you stay, Miss Weber, your pleasant life in your expensive apartment with your servants, and your illegal motorcycle, and your evenings at the Q-Bar will no longer be as pleasant or peaceful.” He smiled and added, “In fact, I think you should stay in Vietnam.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  We had really pissed this guy off, and I knew he had some parting words for me, which I hoped were, “Mr. Brenner, your visa is canceled. Go home.” Okay.

  He turned to me, smiled wickedly, and said, “Have a pleasant and safe journey to Hanoi. I may see you there. But perhaps not.”

  “I plan to be there.”

  He looked again at Susan and said to her, “Remove the film from your camera and give it to me.”

  “I will not.”

  He motioned to the two men behind him, and they came forward. Pushy and I made eye contact, and he smiled.

  I said to Susan, “Give him the film.”

  She hesitated, took the camera from her tote bag, and instead of taking out the film, she snapped a picture of Colonel Mang. This was not a Kodak moment.

  He shouted, “The film! Now!”

  She opened the camera, ripped the partially exposed film out, and threw it on the ground.

  Pushy retrieved it, and he looked up at Susan with an expression of surprise, bordering on awe, as if to say, “You don’t fuck with a colonel in the MPS, lady. You nuts?”

  Colonel Mang decided to break off the confrontation while he was ahead on points. He looked at me and said, “You and I, Mr. Brenner, survived many brutal battles here. It would be very ironic if you did not survive your vacation.”

  My thoughts exactly.

  He turned and walked away across the desolate field with his two henchmen. Pushy turned his head toward us as he walked and made a cutting motion across his throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The sky was dark now, and we stood there in the cold wind.

  Finally, Susan spoke. “I’m shaking.”

  “It got cold.”

  “I’m shaking with fear, Paul.”

  I knew what she meant. “You did fine. Terrific, actually.”

  She lit a cigarette and her hand trembled, which it hadn’t in the presence of Colonel Mang.

  I said, “Let’s roll.”

  We started walking toward the bridge.

  Susan asked me, “Did you two get along a little better in Saigon?”

  “A little, but not much.”

  She thought a moment, then said, “Weird, but I think he . . . he has some positive feelings toward you. Don’t laugh.”

  I replied, “The cat has positive feelings toward the mouse. Lunch.”

  “No, it’s more than that. There’s something between you . . . like a game, a challenge, a respect—”

  “We’re bonding. But you know what? If I had a shovel and he had a machete, someone’s head would wind up on a pole.”

  She didn’t reply, and we kept walking across the dark acres of the former Citadel. Susan said, “We lost all those good shots of Chief John’s village, Khe Sanh . . . everything. That really pisses me off.”

&
nbsp; “You should have asked for a confiscated property receipt.”

  “Now we have to come back and take more photos.”

  “Not in this lifetime, sweetheart.”

  “We’ll be back here someday.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, “He was going for his gun, Paul.”

  “Don’t piss off people who have guns.”

  “You pissed him off,” she reminded me.

  “I was trying to bond with him. It came out wrong.”

  She ignored that and said, “This makes the rest of the trip more difficult.”

  “It makes it more challenging.”

  We crossed the small bridge over the moat and headed back through the paths of the village toward the road.

  There were electric lights in the houses that we passed, and I could smell the distinctive odor of charcoal in the cool, humid air. This was the smell I most remembered at twilight in the winter of 1968.

  Susan said to me, “Sorry I didn’t tell you about Bill sooner.”

  I replied, “It wasn’t your place to tell me.” I smiled and said, “So I need a name, and I use the name of the CIA station chief. Nice going, Brenner.”

  She held her cigarette between her middle fingers, Viet style, and said in a Vietnamese accent, “So, Mr. Brenner, you have made contact with the hill people. Yes? And Miss Weber informs me you are going to organize them into an army. Yes? And you will own the hills. Yes?”

  “Not funny. Hey, do you think Mr. Loc is waiting for us?”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  We kept walking through the dark village, and at night it was difficult to find the main path from the road where Mr. Loc had left us. I could smell fish cooking and rice steaming in the humid air.

  We came to the road, and I said, “Mr. Loc did not wait for us. Too bad. I wanted to break his neck. How do we get back to Hue?”

  “I don’t know. You want to stay in Quang Tri City?”

  “There is no Quang Tri City,” I said.

  “Maybe there’s a guest house. Or I’ll bet we could stay in any one of these houses for a few dollars.”

  “They’d have to pay me. Let’s get on the highway.”

  We walked toward Highway One over a kilometer away. I said, “That bastard left us here in the middle of nowhere.”

  We got to the highway, but there weren’t any vehicles in sight, and it was two days into the new moon, so it was pitch dark.

  Susan looked around, then said, “The buses go up and down Highway One until maybe midnight. I’ll go check with a local. You stay here and flag down a bus, if one comes along. They stop if you flag them down.”

  Susan went into the closest hootch, about thirty meters down the road, and I waited.

  I thought about the day and realized I’d done a five-month tour of combat duty in an afternoon. I may have wanted to linger awhile in the A Shau or Khe Sanh, but maybe enough was enough. I knew I’d never be back.

  I thought also about all the stuff I’d filled Susan’s head with and decided that that, too, was enough.

  Susan came back up the road and said, “We’re invited for dinner and to stay overnight.” She added, “We missed cocktails.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Rice.”

  “Long grain or sticky?”

  “Sticky. There will be a bus along within half an hour. It’s a local.”

  “When does it get to Hue?”

  “When it gets there.”

  “Did you have fun today?”

  “Paul, I had an incredible day, and I truly thank you. The question is, How are you?”

  “I’m fine. When I’m not fine, I’ll let you know.”

  She lit a cigarette. “This war . . . that war was unimaginable. I can’t even begin to comprehend how you and the others lived like that for a whole year.”

  Not everyone lived the whole year, but I didn’t say that.

  We stood silently on the blacktop of Highway One and waited for headlights going south.

  Susan asked, “What if an army patrol comes by? Do we duck out, or just stand here?”

  “Depends on the mood I’m in.”

  “Well, we’re waiting to flag down the Hue bus. Ten-dollar fine.”

  “This place sucks.”

  Susan replied, “The people are mostly nice. That family I just spoke to practically begged me to stay for dinner.”

  “Peasants are nice. Cops, politicians, and soldiers suck.”

  “You’re a cop and a soldier. You’re nice.”

  “Sometimes.” I said, “Colonel Mang wants to kick you out. Why don’t you go?”

  “Where am I going to?”

  “Lenox, Massachusetts.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  She asked me, “Why don’t you go back to Boston instead of living in Virginia?”

  “There’s nothing for me in Boston.”

  “What’s in Virginia?”

  “Nothing.”

  She stared at the glow of her cigarette awhile, then asked, “Why don’t we go someplace together?”

  “You have to quit smoking.”

  “Can I have one after sex?”

  “That’s still half a pack a day.”

  She laughed. “Deal.”

  The headlights of a big vehicle approached from the north, and I could see the lit windows of a bus. I stood out on the deserted highway and waved.

  The bus stopped, the door opened, and we got on. I said to the driver, “Hue.”

  He looked at Susan and me with curiosity and said, “One dollar.”

  Best deal in town, so I gave him two, and he smiled.

  The bus was half empty, and we found two seats together. The seats were wood, and the bus was old, maybe French. The passengers were looking at us. I guess we didn’t look like bus people.

  The bus continued south down the dark highway and stopped in every little village, and whenever someone flagged it down. People got on and people got off. Susan was happy to be on a smoking bus, which was one hundred percent of the bus fleet. She held my hand and looked out the window at the black, desolate terrain.

  There was not one major town between the dead city of Quang Tri and the resurrected city of Hue. But at some point, the countryside started to look better, from the little we could see—houses, lights, rice paddies—and I had the feeling we’d passed out of Quang Tri Province and into the province of Hue.

  I thought about Quang Tri. I would’ve liked to have seen my old base camp, Landing Zone Sharon, or the old French fort named Landing Zone Betty. But those places where I’d spent most of a year existed now only in my mind, and in a few faded photographs. It was strange to feel any nostalgia for a war zone, but those places—the base camps, the vendor stalls, the whorehouses and massage parlors, the hospital where we’d donated food and medicine, the Buddhist and Catholic schools where we’d given paper and pens from our monthly allotment, the church where we’d befriended the old Viet priest and the nun—were all gone now, obliterated from the earth and from the memories of everyone except the oldest of us.

  Maybe I’d waited too long to return. Maybe I should have come back before so many of the visible and psychological scars had healed, before most of that wartime generation had died or grown too old. I may have seen something different here ten or fifteen years ago; more rubble, and more amputees, and more poverty, to be sure. But also some of the old Vietnam, before the DMZ tour buses and Cong World, and backpackers, and Japanese and American businesspeople.

  But life goes on, things get better—Quang Tri Province notwithstanding—and one generation passes away, and another is born.

  I said, “Sorry if I upset your pleasant life here.”

  “It wasn’t that pleasant. I asked for a little excitement, and I got it. I asked about the war, and you told me.”

  “I’m done with that.”

  The bus continued on, and we didn’t speak for some time, then I asked her, “How are we ge
tting up country tomorrow?”

  “Elephant.”

  “How many elephants?”

  “Three. One for you, one for me, and one for my clothes.”

  I smiled.

  She asked me, “Do you think Colonel Mang will be following us?”

  “I’ll see that he isn’t.” I added, “You’re leaving the gun here.”

  She didn’t reply.

  We retreated into our separate thoughts as the old bus chugged on over the bad road. Finally, Susan said, “I’m not upset about that fax.”

  “Good. Which fax?”

  “The one where you said, ‘Sleeping with the enemy,’ and ‘Love to C.’”

  I didn’t reply.

  She changed the subject and said, “When Colonel Mang mentioned the police car accident, my heart stopped.”

  Again, I didn’t reply.

  She said, “What if he finds Mr. Cam or Mr. Thuc?”

  I replied, honestly, “Then we’ve got a big problem.”

  “Paul, I’m frightened.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Maybe we should get out of the country before we get charged with murder.”

  “That’s a good idea. You should fly to Saigon tomorrow and get out.”

  “And you?”

  “I need to push on. I’m not available to Colonel Mang after I head up country tomorrow. Then when I get to Hanoi, I’ll call a guy in the embassy and have him get me inside. After that, it’s up to Washington and Hanoi to cut a deal to get me home.” I added, “I hope it costs Washington at least a billion in foreign aid.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Susan, go home. Fly to Saigon and catch the first plane out.”

  “I will if you will.”

  “I can’t.”

  She said, “Your Vietnam luck has run out, Paul.”

  I didn’t reply.

  I thought about our encounter with Colonel Mang in the desolate ruins of the Quang Tri Citadel, and I recalled the South Vietnamese colonel, probably dead now or re-educated, who had pinned the medal on me. Two very different occasions, but the same place. Actually, it wasn’t the same place; time and war had changed that place from a field of honor to a wasteland so crowded with ghosts that I swear I could feel their cold breaths on my face.

  The bus continued on toward Hue.