The Tale of the Lazy Dog

by Alan Williams

  ‘Have you got the jeep laid on?’

  ‘Oh, we got a pool of ’em down there on the field. No problem.’

  ‘And the equipment?’

  ‘That’s all cleared too. Just that I can’t go short-circuiting the authorities and letting you and your photographers on to the field without permission. I mean, I’d be crazy — I’d stand to go to the stockade.’

  ‘A tour of the perimeter at curfew, Don. Ten-thirty, Sunday night. With official clearance?’

  ‘It has to be.’ The boy gulped at his beer, looking worried.

  ‘And what about guns? M16’s — usual M.P.’s issue? We’ll be carrying them, won’t we?’

  ‘Oh sure thing! They’d think it pretty suspect if you walked round the perimeter without any weapon at all. Only I must have clearance.’

  Murray nodded and they finished their drinks in silence.

  Suddenly Wace said: ‘You mentioned money, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Okay. What makes?’

  ‘I don’t want an official conducted tour, Don. Just you and me and my two photographers. Without any MACV clearance.’

  The sergeant cocked his head: ‘So what’s the price?’

  ‘Now hold on a minute! This isn’t a bribe. I just want you to do us a favour. If it works out, and the story comes off, we’d like to pay you — quite anonymously of course — a fair share. How do you feel about it?’

  Sergeant Wace sat back and smirked. ‘I’d like to see your money, sir. I mean, Murray, I don’t play poker blind with no man — not even a friend.’

  Murray passed him an envelope under the table containing two fifty dollar bills. ‘Keep that in your socks for a rainy day, Don. My newspaper pays very well.’ He stood up. ‘See you on Sunday night — at ATCO Three canteen.’

  Wace nodded, already ripping open the envelope. ‘At twenty-two hundred hours then,’ he began, then added, ‘Jesus!’ his jaw dropping open even further as he gaped at the two bills in his lap, crumbling them away somewhere under the table. ‘Hey, will you stay for another drink, Murray?’

  Murray stood watching him with a slow smile. ‘Yes, Don, I think I will.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Noon, B-Day Minus One.

  The ice-cream parlour was full of the usual Saturday crowd — sleek Vietnamese youths with long hair and the assurance of those with no immediate fear of being drafted; snapping their fingers indolently to the jukebox and drinking iced coffees.

  Murray met Jackie Conquest at a table at the back, away from the wire screens across the windows. At first he had scarcely recognised her, sitting over an untouched chocolate sundae, wearing a wide hat and enormous round sunglasses. ‘I haven’t much time. I’ve got to meet Maxwell for lunch at the Majestic in ten minutes.’ Her voice was brisk, her face expressionless behind the glasses.

  ‘Everything’s still all right?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘It hasn’t changed. Except that Maxwell’s on duty tomorrow night at Tân Sơn Nhất.’

  ‘And what the hell does that mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘He didn’t tell me. He doesn’t tell me much, you know. But it’s a big airfield.’

  ‘Big enough for both of you?’

  ‘Why not? I have my job there, and I’ll just be working late tomorrow night in Greene’s office. There are some important papers to be cleared for Washington by Monday morning.’

  ‘What about Greene?’

  ‘He’s going to a dinner party at the American Embassy. Quite a big occasion, it sounds — the Prime Minister’s going to be there, and several ambassadors. If I know the General, he won’t be back before midnight.’

  ‘He will when that alert goes out — and fast! That’s still in order, is it?’

  She looked up and suddenly smiled. ‘Well, of course. You don’t think I’m going to change my mind now, do you?’

  He took her hand across the table. In the last ten days they had seen each other only twice, briefly, in crowded places, exchanging only the barest messages. He said, squeezing her hand: ‘You know exactly what you must do?’

  ‘Do I have to repeat it again?’ she sighed.

  ‘The last time.’

  ‘At twenty minutes to eleven I telephone down to the M.P.’s guardroom at the ATCO Three complex and ask to speak to you. If everything is all right, I tell you the surprise party is still on. If anything has changed — the schedule cancelled or put back — I tell you the party is off.’

  ‘And if the party is on?’

  ‘I shut off all the telex and telephone communications into the office, and at a quarter to eleven I send the alert. Then I drive out to the Caribou. And now what about all of you? No problems?’

  ‘Not yet. Ryderbeit and Jones have been working non-stop on their homework — maps, compass bearings, weather charts, special survival equipment — you’d think they were training for a moon-flight. Whatever else you may say about Ryderbeit, he’s a professional.’

  ‘And what about the American sergeant?’

  Murray paused. ‘He’s all right. He’s young and green, but he’s willing.’

  ‘And supposing he changes his mind? — doesn’t want to risk three years in a military prison, even for five thousand dollars?’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to answer that phone and tell you the party’s off. We’ll meet later for a drink and drown our sorrows. Remember, if Sergeant Wace won’t play, we’re still in the clear. We’ve lost nothing — except the money.’

  ‘Except the money,’ she nodded: ‘Seven thousand million New Francs.’ She stood up. ‘I must go now. We’ll see each other tomorrow night at eleven — on the Caribou.’

  ‘On the Caribou,’ he said, leaning forward and kissing her quickly on the mouth.

  ‘Au revoir, Murray.’

  He watched her walk swiftly between the groups of dapper Vietnamese, her wide hat swaying above their heads, out into the street where a couple of Americans stopped and stared mournfully after her.

  Her chocolate sundae was still untouched on her plate.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunday, 2100 hours. Brinx Square, Saigon

  The olive-green military bus, with wire mesh across the windows, left on time — as it did every hour, on the hour — for the fifty-minute drive out to Tân Sơn Nhất Airport. Among the dozen or so passengers — all apparently American, and all in uniform — were three men in freshly laundered jungle-green combat fatigues and polished boots, carrying no visible luggage. They had boarded the bus separately and sat in different seats, two of them pretending to doze, the other reading Time.

  The bus stopped at several points on the route, picking up and discharging passengers. The ride was free and there were no checks; only at the gates of the airfield did a sullen little Vietnamese M.P. peer up inside to make sure there were none of his compatriots aboard. The American M.P.’s waved them through with little more than a glance; it was usually only taxis and private cars that invited scrutiny. Most of the passengers disembarked at the main military terminal. The final stop, about a mile and a half away, and well inside the perimeter, was ATCO III compound; and for this last stretch, except for one sleepy Negro and an elderly Marine warrant officer, Murray, Ryderbeit and No-Entry Jones had the bus to themselves.

  They were all sweating heavily now: their chests, under the flimsy tropical fatigues, strapped across with the twin-pack Air U.S.A. survival kits containing dehydrated chocolate, bouillon cubes, salt and water-purification tablets, magnetic compass, fishing-line, flares, torch, toilet paper, needle and thread, hacksaw blade, and a first aid pack, including Benzedrine tablets, morphine and anti-sunburn cream. Just before leaving they had each taken one of these Benzedrine tablets, and as the bus neared ATCO III their senses were already beginning to respond to the quickening flow of adrenalin, the heightening of senses compounded with a pleasant relaxation of the nerves.

  No-Entry was also wearing a wad of maps — USAF one-millionth-scale charts of every area of the Indo-Chinese peni
nsula from the southernmost tip of the Mekong Delta up to the borders of Burma and China — and all of them carried in the deep ammunition pockets of their trousers four clips of .30 calibre M16 rounds. Ryderbeit also had two hand-grenades with three-second fuses.

  It was a dark night, but the latest weather reports that evening from MACV headquarters had promised that the next twelve hours should be ‘relatively clear and operational’.

  ATCO III compound was a dreary sprawl of sheds, mud and metal roads, bunkers and fuel storage tanks. The only well-lit building was the canteen. At exactly 9.55 Murray got off the bus and led the way in, with the other two strolling a few yards behind. Wace was already there, his black-and-white M.P.’s helmet on the table beside him, his M16 slung over the back of his chair. He saw Murray and shuffled quickly to his feet; but he was not smiling. ‘Hi Murray.’

  ‘You’re right on time, Don. Two minutes early. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ The boy’s fingers fidgeted round his acned neck; he was paler than Murray had seen him before. ‘You got your photographers?’

  Murray beckoned to Ryderbeit and Jones. ‘This is Mister Rogers, Don — Mister Jones. May we sit down?’

  ‘Sure. Coffee?’ Wace flicked his fingers at the Vietnamese girl behind the counter, his eyes straying dubiously over No-Entry who merely nodded, grave and untroubled. ‘Well, Murray, you sure chose one helluva night!’ he added, sitting down too.

  Murray stared at him blankly.

  ‘Yeah, there’s somethin’ of a razzmatazz on tonight, sirs — I mean, we got some kinda big bustle on the field.’

  Murray’s elbow was pushed across the table, his eyes hard on the young sergeant’s. ‘What kind of razzmatazz, Don?’

  Wace gave a lopsided grin. ‘Pretty big, by all I hear. Doubled security on the perimeter — whole company of Arvins posted in case there’s a breakthrough. And all us M.P.’s on special alert.’

  ‘Should make a good story,’ Murray smiled. ‘Especially if there is a breakthrough.’

  Wace’s Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. ‘I sure hope not, Murray! You oughta see this airfield during a real alert — during that Tet offensive. We got every pant-wettin’ recruit on the field gettin’ so goddam scared they was shootin’ up us M.P.’s — shootin’ anythin’ they saw move!’

  ‘You mean we might be in danger going out with you tonight?’ Murray said, smiling; but Wace’s eyes turned down and searched deep in his coffee cup.

  ‘They got a lot of M.P.’s out tonight, Murray. And without special clearance — I mean, I don’t want us gettin’ pulled in by some big brass-hat for photographin’ military installations or anything.’

  ‘Don.’ Murray spoke very low. ‘We made a deal. Remember?’

  ‘Sure, sure!’ Wace nodded vigorously. ‘I’m not wantin’ to be obstructive or anythin’, Murray. It’s just that I don’t like us to be out there too long.’

  ‘You don’t have to come at all,’ Murray said softly. ‘We’ll do a quick tour of the perimeter — just the three of us — and be back here within the hour. O.K.?’

  Wace gaped at him, his mouth open. ‘Hey, I can’t do that, Murray! That’d be crazy!’

  Murray nodded. ‘Where’s the jeep?’

  ‘Parked outside the guardroom.’

  ‘And the ignition keys?’

  ‘I left ’em in,’ he murmured.

  ‘Fine.’ Murray smiled and stood up. ‘We’re wasting time, Don. Rogers, Jones — let’s go through and get the equipment. Lead the way, sergeant.’

  Wace struggled to his feet, leaving some Scrip money for the coffees. ‘You’ll get me thrown in the stockade, Murray!’ he whimpered, leading the way out into a bare corridor of weatherboard, stopping at the last door at the end. The room was empty, lined with steel lockers; on the wall, crude familiar drawings of uniforms and weapons: KNOW YOUR ENEMY — VIGILANCE IS THE PRICE OF DEMOCRACY. And a desk with a telephone.

  Wace went hesitatingly over to one of the lockers and took out three M.P. helmets; then moved to another and brought out three M16 carbines. ‘O.K., I guess we better get movin’.’ He paused, looking at Ryderbeit and Jones. ‘You boys got no cameras?’ he asked suddenly.

  No-Entry nodded impassively. ‘We got them small Japanese jobs, sergeant. Can’t go flashing a lot of equipment around if we’re supposed to be genuine M.P.’s now, can we?’ Ryderbeit and Murray were already fitting on their helmets, slinging the M16’s over their shoulders.

  Wace started towards the door, not looking at all happy. Suddenly Murray barred his way, his heart beating fast. ‘Just a moment, Don. You’re staying here. Till we come back.’

  Wace opened his mouth and shut it again. His eyes were beginning to register fear. He looked quickly at Ryderbeit and No-Entry, then at the door. ‘Lemme outta here!’ he cried, and his hands brought up the M16, pointing it at Murray’s belly.

  ‘You’re forgetting something, sergeant.’ Murray took a step forward. ‘Two days ago you accepted a couple of illegal greens. Big ones. Big enough to get you six months in the stockade, Don.’

  ‘You can’t prove that!’

  ‘I may not be able to prove it — but I can still report it. I’ll tell them you agreed to take me on an unofficial ride round the perimeter in your jeep in exchange for one hundred dollars in cash — then at the last moment you chickened out. They can’t throw me in the stockade, Don. They can’t do a damned thing to me. Anyway, why would they think I’d make up a crazy story like that?’

  Wace’s lip began to tremble. The muzzle of his M16 had dropped several inches. ‘Just for a lousy hundred bucks!’ he cried, and for a moment Murray thought he was going to weep.

  ‘Here’s your five grand.’ Murray brought out a fat roll of Pol’s fifty dollar bills from his tunic pocket and tossed them down at Wace’s feet. ‘Now pick those up and get out — before one of your brass-hats walks in and nabs you red-handed.’

  Wace stood looking goggle-eyed at the tight little roll of notes slowly uncurling themselves on the floor. Then suddenly he bent double and grabbed them up, pushing them deep into his back ammunition pocket. ‘If one o’ you bastards breathes a word o’ this,’ he blurted, ‘I’ll blow his head off, so help me God!’

  ‘Forget you ever saw us, sergeant. Now put that money in a safe place and get lost!’

  The door slammed and Wace was gone. Murray looked at his watch: 10.34. ‘Six minutes to go,’ he said, glancing at the telephone.

  ‘You think that sap’ll go running to the nearest M.P.’s?’ said Ryderbeit.

  ‘I don’t think so. Not right away, at least. He’ll sit and contemplate that money first. Then he’ll probably do the sensible thing and try to forget all about it until he’s on the ship back home.’

  Ryderbeit fitted a clip of ammunition into his M16, handing out two more to the others. ‘Just in case,’ he murmured. ‘From now on we’re on enemy territory.’ And together the three of them swung round. Silently and very quickly the door had opened and two men stepped in. One was an M.P., the other a civilian. The M.P. was an enormous man of about fifty, standing at least two inches taller than any of them, with a broad, blank, brutal face behind dark glasses with reflecting lenses. His voice was a slow Southern drawl, but with none of the Southern charm. ‘Ye men got yer Ah-Dee cards?’

  None of them moved. They were all looking at the civilian. He nodded at each of them, with no smile. ‘Evening Mr Wilde — Mr Ryderbeit.’ He ignored No-Entry. ‘All got up for a nice fancy-dress party?’

  Murray gave a tired smile. ‘It’s all right, Mr Conquest, we’ve got our I.D. cards.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. But I’m not interested in your identification, Mr Wilde. I know it too well already. I want to know what you three are doing in unauthorised premises impersonating members of the U.S. Armed Forces.’ As he spoke the M.P. laid a hand the size of a spade on the white flap of his .45 holster.

  Murray nodded. ‘Good question, Maxwell.’ He looked down at the M.P.’s hand, then at Ryderbeit, b
oth arms hanging loose at his sides, fingers flexed about eighteen inches below his loaded M16. Lastly he looked at No-Entry, whose carbine still lay on the table, his boxer’s hands resting on his hips. Three against two, he thought: but he still didn’t fancy the odds. If they tried shooting it out they’d alert the whole compound; on the other hand, Conquest had already proved himself in unarmed combat, and Murray doubted whether even No-Entry could make much impact on this huge M.P.

  He decided to play for time — valuable, one-point-five billion dollars’ worth of time. At that moment the M.P. took a step forward and Murray caught his own twin reflection in the man’s dark lenses. ‘Better take ’em down to Security and have ’em checked out, Mr Conquest,’ the man said, moving only his lower lip; and Murray recognised the mute, dead-eyed authority of the big nation wielding the big stick — the nightstick and napalm, big boots on alien soil — of a simple man who still did not quite know the rules and was just waiting to stamp and swing.

  But Maxwell Conquest was no such simple man, and although he did not always play by the rules, he at least knew them. And he would know that arresting three civilians — two of whom were not even Americans — on foreign territory could give rise to serious complications. Murray looked at him calmly and began to say, ‘Are you intending to arrest us, Mr Conquest?’ — when the telephone rang on the desk.

  He reached it in one leap, before the M.P. could grab him. Jackie’s voice was clear and matter-of-fact: ‘Mr Wilde please?’

  ‘C’est moi, chérie.’ He looked dead into Conquest’s eyes as he listened.

  ‘The surprise party’s all arranged,’ she said, ‘Same time, same place.’

  ‘Merci. A tout à l’heure!’ He hung up, sighed, and gave a small smile. ‘This is a little embarrassing, Mr Conquest.’ He glanced at the menacing M.P. who had taken another step forward. ‘Perhaps we could have a word together in private?’

  ‘Private?’

  Murray nodded at the phone. ‘That was your wife just now.’