Play the Red Queen

by Juris Jurjevics

  “I do not feel sufficiently informed to tell you,” Lodge bullshitted. “I have heard the shooting, but I am not well enough acquainted with all the facts. It is four-thirty a.m. in Washington and the US government cannot possibly have a view.”

  “You must have some general idea,” Diem insisted. “I need the protection of the US Marine teams aboard the Seventh Fleet standing off the coast. I need them to come protect the palace.”

  “I am unaware of any such Marine units.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, you are talking to the president of an independent and sovereign nation. I want to do what duty and good sense require. I believe in duty, above all.”

  “Sir,” Lodge said, soothingly, “as I told you only this morning, I admire your courage and your great contributions to your country. No one can take away from you the credit for all you have done. You have certainly done your duty. I am worried about your physical safety. I have a report that those in charge of the current activity offer you and your brother safe conduct out of the country if you resign. Had you heard this?”

  “No,” Diem said.

  “He sounds completely deflated,” Dunn whispered.

  “Mr. Ambassador, will you stop the coup?”

  “That is not in my power,” Lodge said.

  “What would be your advice?”

  “You are a head of state. I cannot officially give you advice. But as a friend, someone concerned for your health, my suggestion would be that you think seriously about getting away. If I can be of help with that, I am prepared to send my driver and my close aide, Mr. Dunn, to escort you to safety.”

  Lodge looked to Mike Dunn, who nodded assent. Better you than me, I thought.

  “He is known at the palace and would ride in the front seat of my limousine with the chauffeur. The car will fly embassy flags. I am confident he could get through the standoff and escort you safely away.”

  “Non,” Diem said. “No. I will not flee.”

  Lodge looked grim, the worry in his voice apparent as he upped the offer. “An American crew and fueled plane are waiting for me at the airfield. It’s a comfortable plane appointed in a manner appropriate to your position. It will carry you to the Philippines and on to any country of your choosing. France, Italy . . .”

  Diem didn’t bite. “I will only leave this country if it is the wish of my people. I will never leave at the request of rebellious generals or of an American ambassador. You have no right to make such a request of an elected sitting president. Your government must take full responsibility before the world in this miserable matter. I am the President of the Republic of Việt Nam. I will never desert my people,” Diem said. “You have my telephone number.”

  “Yes. If I can do anything for your physical safety, please call me.”

  “I am trying to re-establish order.” Diem rang off.

  None of Diem’s forces were coming to his rescue, Mike Dunn said, not Nhu’s Republican Guard, not even Madame Nhu’s women’s auxiliary. Not General Dinh’s troops either. The coup generals barely trusted one another and the hotheaded young General Dinh not at all. All river ferries had been moved to the far shore. If Dinh had a sudden surge of old loyalties, his tanks were stranded on the other bank.

  Lulu called to report that Diem had tried to telephone the Red Berets’ commander, Colonel Tung, who had been detained at the officers’ luncheon. Big Minh put the colonel on the line. Tung apologized to Diem. He couldn’t help. The Special Forces were no longer under his command. He was a prisoner with a gun to his head. The call was cut off.

  Running secret police squads and keeping dossiers on all the army’s top officers hadn’t won Colonel Tung or his Special Forces any fans among the generals. Captain Ting wasn’t the only one who thought he was a leper. Tung had smeared reputations and sowed distrust while serving his president. Big Minh’s bodyguard, Captain Nhung, had loaded Colonel Tung and his brother into a jeep and driven them to a wooded corner of the headquarters, Lulu said, where he made them kneel on the lip of their own graves. Captain Nhung showed them two new notches on his knife before he shot them dead.

  “Nhung’s taking out Big Minh’s trash,” Robeson muttered. “This ain’t gonna be pretty. Payback’s a beast.”

  Lulu Conein reported that the head of naval operations, a Diem loyalist but well liked by his fellow officers, had been executed on his way to his own birthday lunch. “Revolution’s messy,” Lulu said.

  Conein had to be right there with the mutineers in their war room to have all this so quick.

  The rebels knew Diem would stall, waiting for reinforcements, still thinking this was a part of the false coup to flush out traitors, that all he had to do was sit tight and wait for Dinh. So Big Minh had phoned Diem and put dashing General Dinh on the line to reveal his duplicity and drive home Diem’s hopeless situation with no loyal “son” coming to rescue him. With a string of curses, the young man told Diem to come out of the palace or die. Big Minh took the phone again to add further intimidation. Diem hung up on him, only to call back, full of conditions. Minh would not negotiate. General Don got on the line to offer Diem safe passage out of the country, nothing more. Despite all the firepower amassed around the palace, Diem would not surrender. Big Minh was flabbergasted. He gave the president five minutes. Diem hung up and the palace defenders answered the ultimatum with gunfire.

  Lulu Conein was calling again. Big Minh had made all the generals tape-record declarations about participating in the mutiny, and was having their statements broadcast over civilian radio. There could be no backing out, no denying they’d participated.

  Mike Dunn confirmed to Conein that two helicopters were standing by on the eighteenth green of the Saigon Golf Club, ready to serve as getaway transportation for the top-dog mutineers just in case. Which meant the conspirators weren’t yet sure if the coup would succeed. And if they had to flee, Big Minh had informed Conein he would be coming with them. Conein had skin in the game now too.

  “Sir,” a Marine announced, “twenty more rebel tanks are converging on the palace. The ones already in position still aren’t firing.” With that amount of firepower amassed, they could afford to wait for Diem’s surrender.

  We followed Lodge upstairs through the master bedroom and onto the portico over the entry. Smoke continued to rise in the distance, no doubt from the presidential guards’ barracks. There was a commotion at the gate as the relatives of Lodge’s Vietnamese staff crept onto the grounds looking for safe haven. A Marine advised Lodge to leave the balcony. Two neighbors were firing tracers at each other, settling some private beef. We followed Lodge inside. Mike Dunn’s twin boys were playing foxhole in a big cast-iron bathtub.

  “Hell,” Robeson muttered to me, “with the pasting the rebels are about to give the place and no General Dinh coming to their rescue, Diem and Nhu will go to ground in the bunker. The perfect time for the Queen to slip through the secret tunnel.”

  He was right. The brouhaha outside was perfect cover for her to make her move.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Whatever Lodge had wanted from us was lost in the hubbub. We were needed elsewhere.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I raised Captain Deckle on the T-11, told him why we thought she’d be striking soon, and that we needed everyone at the emplacement. He said the rebel troops had quarantined the American offices along rue Pasteur, including MACV and CID. Investigators Francis and Moehlenkamp weren’t going anywhere. That meant there would just be four of us. God help us if she brought the house.

  Despite the absence of traffic, we were forced to drive an ever-widening circle to skirt the fighting concentrated around the palace and the guards’ barracks a thousand yards farther down Thong Nhat Boulevard. At each intersection we’d catch signs of combat on parallel streets: splintered trees, shattered windows, walls pocked by gunfire.

  It was starting to rain again as we rol
led into the parkland. There was supposed to be a full moon but the sky was dark with clouds, except for the light flashing continuously over the palace roof. Small arms crackled from the direction of the palace. A howitzer barrage tugged at the air in our lungs.

  Rider and Crouch made room for us to settle in. Besides the Swedish K, Rider had brought his M14, the long gun we carried in Korea. A cloud of smoke drifted toward us, smelling of cordite and something creosote-sweet. Two waiters in white shirts and black bow ties jogged past, trying to escape the fighting or obey the curfew. An ambulance klaxon wailed, stopped for a minute, and howled again as it sped away.

  Diem’s presidential guard and the Red Berets were having a bad time, but it didn’t sound like they’d be surrendering anytime soon. The battle was deafening. We had to shout to hear each other.

  “Sounds like fireworks at Tet,” Rider yelled, nodding in the direction of the palace.

  “They were never this excited to be fighting when we was advising,” Robeson shouted back.

  The conflict ebbed and surged. We rubbed at the cramps in our legs, gazed out through the fronds and waited. A bicyclist pedaled across the soft turf. One of her scouts? We followed him with our gunsights until he exited the park. A clutch of civilians hurried through the oncoming dark, followed by a dozen little kids carting burlap bags filled with spent brass scooped from under the guns, hollering for joy at what the scrap metal would fetch.

  The warm rain misted us. Robeson and I guarded the front; Rider and Crouch, our back. I hoped like hell the mortars and tanks didn’t overshoot their targets. We were easily within range. I exhaled slowly, trying to bring down my racing pulse. A block or two away people were fighting for their lives and over in our valley we were bored and anxious.

  Jasmine hung in the air. Robeson sang “The Twist” soft and slow, like a lullaby. I wanted to lie down and close my eyes for a week.

  The rain eased up and we caught glimpses of the moon. Rider tapped me and pointed. A lone rider on a dappled horse, all in black, was clopping steadily along the sodden bridle path in our direction, a nutcase out for an evening’s canter in the middle of a coup.

  As they drew closer, the speckled horse grew skittish from the battle noise. Robeson was the first to cotton on. “The Queen’s arriving.”

  Rider flipped off his safety. “Party’s on.”

  She looked elegant in a long-sleeved top and loose pants, cone hat tied under her chin, hair trailing behind her tethered only with a scarf tied in a simple loop. Brazen, I thought, as she left the bridle path and guided her mount toward the shed.

  Heavy ordnance popped and boomed a few blocks away, lighting up the sky. Stray rounds buzzed high over our heads, scooting through the treetops, knocking down branches. I scanned the park, looking for her cadre. They could already be in place, waiting patiently to pop out of spider holes in the ground like they had roadside in Tay Ninh.

  “Mr. Rider,” I said, “watch our rear. See if you can spot her comrades.”

  She dismounted lightly, untied her hat, undid the ribbons around her hair and her waist. The panels of her black ao dai dropped down over the black pants. Her horse shifted uneasily at the steady gunfire and explosions. She patted his forehead and touched her own brow to his. The horse settled slightly. With her back to us, she undid the saddle and let it slide to the ground. Tossing the reins over the withers, she turned him back toward the bridle path and slapped his flank. The horse galloped off, heading for home.

  No horse, no Vespa. How did she plan to get away? Did she expect to slip into the tunnel, execute her targets, and walk back out into the night? Fearless, this one, I thought. Relying on sheer guts rather than numbers.

  Why not, I supposed. In the bunker it would likely be just the two brothers and a bodyguard or two. With her skills, she could surprise them and emerge, disappearing into the blacked-out city as easily as she had vanished from General Lang’s hotel. Our job was to keep her from entering the tunnel.

  The Red Queen turned, taking in her surroundings, giving us our first real look at her. Even at ninety yards, her easy grace and manner were arresting.

  “The confidence of the righteous,” Robeson whispered.

  Lady Death took in the inky landscape, staring right at us.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The foliage had done its job. She hadn’t spotted us. She bent to get something from the saddle on the ground, strolled to the bench ten yards from the shed, and sat down, her back to us. Her long black hair shone in the explosive flashes.

  “What the hell?” Crouch growled. “What the fuck’s she waiting for?”

  “She’s just waiting for the rest of the team to arrive,” Robeson said.

  “Maybe.” Then it dawned on me—finally—what her plan must be. “I take it back,” I said.

  Robeson hissed. “Take what back?”

  “She doesn’t need a collaborator on the inside. She’s not going in through the tunnel to find Diem in the bunker.”

  “Whaddya mean?” Robeson said. “She’s here, ain’t she?”

  “The palace is gonna fall. Who’s gonna rescue them? Even if he wanted to help, Dinh’s boys are stuck on the other side of the river, remember? When Diem and Nhu realize there’s no help on the way, they’ll bail.”

  “They’ll quit the bunker—and come sneaking out of that shed?”

  “Shit, you might just be right,” Crouch drawled. “Making a run for it in the middle of the bedlam would be their best chance.”

  “And her best shot at nailing them,” I said.

  Robeson nodded. “So she’s waiting to pop whoever comes out of that shed. The good news is there’s nobody else here but us friendlies. Four of us and only one of her.”

  “So far,” Rider corrected.

  Crouch turned to me. “Where are her little Victor Charlies?”

  “Close by, most likely, waiting for word from inside the palace that Diem’s making his getaway.”

  Robeson said, “Then we better hurry up.”

  “Yeah,” I said, resigning myself. “We gotta move on her now.” I cursed her, nerving myself up to take her on. She’s Viet Cong, I told myself, proven lethal many times over. Was there any point in capturing her? We’d have to hand her over to the Vietnamese. They’d break her a millimeter at a time, extracting vengeance for every drop of blood she’d spilled. Instead of being relieved that she’d come unaccompanied, I almost felt bad for her. There was nothing for it but to descend without warning, close on the enemy and kill her.

  “Rider, stay and cover the back. Make sure none of her people roll up on us unannounced. Sergeant Crouch, loop left; flank her. Sergeant Robeson, on me. We go straight at her.”

  Safeties clicked off.

  “The palace fighting is noisy as fuck,” I said, “but don’t shout and risk alerting her. Remember, her weapon is only accurate to thirty feet. We’re ninety yards from where she’s sitting on the bench. We advance to where we’re forty yards from her, then we light her up. I count off the paces. I fire first.”

  “Better zap her quick,” Crouch said, his voice antsy and resentful. “There’s nothin’ but flat ground in between us and her. If she spots us—”

  “Once more: we go to within forty yards of her on the bench and I fire—me. First.”

  Pumped, they nodded, except Crouch, who was flipping his safety back and forth, looking aggrieved.

  “Suppress her fire,” I said. “Hose her. Don’t let her get off any clean shots. Okay, spread and go. Maintain your intervals.”

  We edged over the slight rise, slipped down off the higher hillock and fanned out as we moved from the greenery into the open, wire gun stocks against our shoulders. Four rifles against a sidearm. No contest, I kept repeating to myself as I paced off the distance down from ninety yards. Eighty . . . Seventy . . .

  The incessant firing around the palace lit the nig
ht sky. We moved steadily. Still counting. Sixty yards . . . When the fighting slackened for a moment, the light from the muzzles stuttered, like flashguns going off. We looked like a silent movie, our motions jagged.

  Fifty . . . I gave a hand signal to get ready—three paces to go. And then fucking Crouch fired. Blasted his entire clip at her: thirty-six rounds, three seconds. She dropped to a knee and shoved the bench over as the slugs flew at her.

  Three shots flashed back at us. Robeson buckled. The side of my face burned. My ear was bleeding. Mother of God. She’d hit two of us in an instant, in the herky-jerky dark. If it had been steady daylight we’d be dead.

  She fired four times more. Crouch emptied another whole magazine in the second it took her to reload. My eyes teared. I loosed three-shot bursts in her direction, aiming the tracers. Robeson, flat on the ground, stitched the bench. We smothered her. She fired again.

  Crouch poured on more from the left flank. Tracers zipped by as Rider, in the blind, fired single rounds from his M14, trying to snipe her.

  Our bullets peppered the shed, the bench. The ground geysered dirt around her. She couldn’t raise her head but fired at Crouch and pivoted to me. Crouch unloaded a third magazine at her. She went limp.

  No return fire.

  Our gun barrels smoked in the misty drizzle. Crouch dropped to a knee, afraid to approach any closer. I crept forward. Nothing. I walked with more confidence. Crouch came up alongside me, rifle trained on her, when the shed door opened.

  Out of the bougainvillea stepped the unmistakable silhouette of Mr. Vy, carrying a large case. Behind him, two priests in cassocks. From their height and postures I recognized them right off. The taller priest strode arrogantly past Mr. Vy, ignoring the tipped bench and body like they weren’t there. He signaled to a car coming toward the shed out of the inky night, headlamps dimmed. The shorter priest waddled after him like a duck. Not a word to us. We were invisible.