by Don McQuinn
“That’s a possibility. We’ll doctor the stuff, though.” He explained the arrangements. “They’ll test some rounds, so everything else has to be straight. If they pull one of the funny rounds, we lose. On the other hand, if they spread the stuff around as we expect, we trace it to each way stop and a final destination. And in two weeks those grenades and mortar rounds start going off wherever they are.”
Loc sipped his tea before breaking the silence. “If everything works, I see no reason why we should think we are any closer to Binh. It’s a good plan to harass the VC, but I see no danger to Binh. He will have been tricked and he will lose face. He is the important target.”
Taylor said, “Bat ca hai tay.”
His listeners looked up sharply.
“ ‘Catch fish with both hands,’ ” he translated. “It’s a sound principle, like most proverbs.”
He directed the comment to Winter, managing a surreptitious glance at Loc. The smaller man’s eyes were just recovering from widening in surprise and Taylor hurried on.
“The rest of our plan is soft, admittedly, but it’s an attempt to strike at Binh from two directions. We feel it’s time to get the VC after him, too.”
Denby snorted scorn. “You think the VC will execute him for getting cheated?”
“No, Trung Ta,” Duc blurted in protest. “We are not so fools as that.” In his haste, he slipped into Vietnamese, “If the plan goes well—” He stopped abruptly at Loc’s partially raised hand.
“In English, please.”
Duc’s relieved exhalation was almost a whistle. He nodded with sufficient vehemence to make his cheeks bounce.
“If plan go well, we send men to start rumor Binh have sudden big bank account in Bangkok. Other three—Trung, Tu, Sam An—disappear. Other rumor say they guests of government. We have them stay in hotel.”
Loc’s gaze wandered as Duc paused to dab at a moist upper lip. Denby was hunched forward, intent on Duc’s face, his own forehead bunched in a frown. Loc signaled to Duc.
“Thieu Ta,” he said, “I would like to hear Major Taylor continue. It is good for us to listen to English.”
Denby immediately leaned back in his chair and Loc chided himself for seizing on the incident as another reason to dislike him.
Taylor said, “After the bad ammunition explodes, similar large bank accounts will be discovered in Hong Kong, naming our three so-called guests. They will be seen getting on a plane to go there. The plane will leave here and land in Da Lat to pick up casualties. It will land again in Da Nang. Our three will be carried off on stretchers, ostensibly more casualties being unloaded. The plane will continue on to Hong Kong and in a short while, there will be a message saying they’re settled, have their new identities, and everything’s OK. The message will be official, but there’ll be an administrative foul-up and it’ll come in uncoded. It’ll also mention similar arrangements await the fourth man, on completion of his work for us.”
“Jesus Christ.” A pink wash spread across Denby’s normally pale face. His ears turned bright red, making it look as though they were leaking the unusual tint into his system. He looked at Winter before returning a disbelieving stare to Taylor and Duc. “What the devil do you think we are, something out of James Bond? Bank accounts! Smuggling prisoners around! Radio messages! If one link fails, it all fails, and we’ve got nothing!”
Taylor kept his voice calm. “Not entirely, sir. At the absolute worst, we’ve got the three guys we already know about and we hand off a nasty problem to the VC with the ammunition. For all we know, one of those three can give us a solid lead on Binh. The only risk is in passing out the good ammunition and I feel the possible gain warrants that.”
Denby said, “I don’t like it, Colonel. It’s too tenuous. We haven’t a single guarantee.”
Winter chose to speak to Loc. “It’s weak.”
Loc concentrated on Duc, one finger idly stroking his chin. “I lean toward Colonel Denby—we have no guarantees.”
“True, Dai Ta,” Taylor said, “but it’s a chance. If we try, we may succeed. If we don’t try, we can’t win.”
Loc’s smile slit across his face. “The only part of your plan that attracts me.” He turned to Winter. “If we fail, Binh will at least know we have not forgotten him. And I am certain Trung Ta Tho will convince the three fish in the net that they should tell us anything they know. There will be gain, however small.”
Tho smiled broadly at Taylor and Duc at the mention of his name. Taylor smiled back, unsure if it was the right response. He had never seen Tho in action. Winter made it explicit that none of the Americans be involved in the more rigorous Vietnamese interrogations. Still, the word got around, and it was sufficient to discourage most of the Americans from exercising any curiosity. If they discussed Tho’s work at all, it was to debate the necessity for his technique and the actual value of his findings. There were stories of prisoners confessing anything to simply get away from him. On the other hand, it was estimated that at least a third of the verified information on the 5x8 cards in the files originated from Tho, garnered in small dark rooms. There was another story that Winter had raised unholy hell about the matter once, a long time ago, and had been pointedly told to keep his nose out of the way the Vietnamese chose to run their part of the war.
Winter’s decisive voice banished the problem for the moment.
“Leave the paperwork with Colonel Denby and Colonel Tho. We’ll give this thing a run.”
Duc scrambled to rid himself of the folders, one in Vietnamese, the other in English.
Winter added, “Now if you gentlemen will excuse us, Colonel Loc and I have some business to discuss.”
Tho and Denby followed the Majors into the hall, the former merely stepping across into his own office. Denby called Taylor.
“Major, I want to go over this thing with you. In my office, please. Now.”
Taylor started toward him and Duc moved to follow.
Denby put out a hand. “Major Duc, you keep yourself available for a call from Colonel Tho. He’ll have some questions for you about this, too.” He extended the manila folder out to his side and flicked it with a finger. In the quiet hallway the paper made a crack like wood breaking.
Duc said, “Yes, sir,” and when Denby turned to enter his office, smiled sad sympathy at Taylor.
The XO’s office differed radically from Winter’s. Smaller, it looked more like a consultation room than a soldier’s working area. Behind his chair, wooden shelves held a wide selection of books ranging from novels to technical manuals. The wall separating the office from Tho’s had been turned into a gallery. A lacquered tray depicting a proud rooster glowed from its place directly above the connecting door, muted gold and silver shimmering iridescence that imbued the bird with an eerie lifelike quality. Eight examples of Chinese embroidery, the pieces called mandarin sleeves, hung with mathematical precision between the same door and the window, their ornate intricacy clashing with black and white photographs of a grinning Denby shaking hands with Generals, being decorated with medals, and drinking with dignitaries.
The desk was relatively clear of clutter, holding only a monkey-pod mug full of pens and pencils, the inevitable In and Out baskets, and a carved representation of two elephants mating. The elephants were a present from Loc. Denby’s disgust for them was well known, as was his fear of even trying to rid himself of them, due to their origin. What was also known to all the Vietnamese and most of the Americans—but a secret from Denby—was that Colonel Loc had told Tho, “It is the only thing I have ever seen which can suggest what a huge fuck I think he really is.” The statuette had been presented and accepted with gracious smiles and rested, ever since, front and center on the desk. It was the first thing Denby saw when he came to work every morning and it never failed to draw a wince.
He swept around the desk and seated himself, making no indication Taylor should take a seat. He jabbed a short finger at the operation plan.
“You don’t even mention how these signal-emitt
ing rounds of yours are to be constructed.”
“I don’t know all the correct terminology, sir. Kimble says he can do it and I’ll include the technical data as a separate appendix.”
Denby grunted. “Here’s another thing—you say five pounds of C-3 to booby trap ‘some’ M-16 rounds. How many is some, Major? How do you know this stunt will even work?”
Taylor felt his fists clench and willed the fingers limp again. “I’m assuming it’ll work as planned, sir.” He was delighted to see Denby brighten, seizing on the assumption. Taylor added, “I’ve done it before, with .45 rounds.”
Disappointment dragged through Denby’s next question.
“You experimented with this idea?”
“Yes, sir, in I Corps. We got two grease gunners and three pistol shooters. One of the grease gunners was wearing the whole bolt assembly in his bellybutton when we found him. It works, Colonel.”
Denby sneered. “I’m sure you’re quite adept at your concept of your trade. My responsibility is to see that we conduct feasible operations—practical, sound operations, not cunning contrivances. That requires plans, as opposed to schemes. That’s what this is—an undocumented, badly written, poorly conceived scheme.” He shoved the folder away as if it was offending his nose, then leaned back in the swivel chair and watched for Taylor’s reaction.
“I’ll rewrite it, sir.”
He was thinking, Poor Denby. He knows the operation’s a go. He can complain and bitch, but he can’t override Winter.
“You certainly will rewrite it,” Denby said. “Tho may accept something like this. I won’t. I’ll have it in my hands, properly written before you start, or I’ll fight to kill it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Denby extended the document to Taylor, who accepted it with exaggerated solemnity.
* * *
In the adjoining office, Winter and Loc were discussing the details of the interrogation on Plantation Road.
“The manager was a disappointment,” Loc said with a bland smile. “He cooperated rather readily.”
Winter nodded. “Give him an unsat mark for loyalty and outstanding for judgement.”
The customary cigarette bobbed as Loc drew on it, then spoke. The smoke provided his punctuation.
“The Major is involved in everything but dope and he is negotiating for that.”
Inflamed patches appeared to lift out from the flesh of Winter’s neck. Loc had difficulty understanding his almost inarticulate question.
“Are you sure?”
“We have it on good authority,” Loc said dryly.
“Does Tho know who’s involved in the drug thing?”
“Only a large black man. It is a new lead, Win.”
“There’s more!” Winter erupted from his chair and stalked the room as if he would attack one of the walls. “What else could our Sergeant have been working with?”
Searching for a soothing approach, Loc said, “Your view is too dark, my friend. Consider—we have established that our suspect is on the edges of the drug problem. We have information we can turn over to other intelligence organizations, since we have no resources to investigate an operation of the size our informant described. I will see to our traitorous Sergeant. We pursue Binh.”
The unreasoning emotion drained from Winter’s stride and his whole body shivered in the move back to a normal attitude. Still, his voice remained defensive.
“There’s millions of dollars in drugs, Loc, millions. It’d be a great source of income for Binh. And it destroys our people better than bullets.”
“I know.” Loc purposely waited to continue until Winter faced him, hoping the sight of his own deliberate behavior would influence the larger man. To his pleasure, it seemed to, but the question remained if he was convincing his friend of the wisdom of his course or merely distracting him by bringing up Binh. Either way was right, he decided.
“There is actually little money involved in drugs here, Win. You know that. It is too cheap. I agree the communists use it as a weapon against you, but Binh deals in the logistics of combat, not politics.”
Winter resumed his seat, practically falling into the chair.
“You’re right. One thing at a time. I have this foolish urge to spread us too thin. Have you learned anything further about Sergeant Hai?”
Loc moved to the door before answering. “He has betrayed us all. He is already morally dead. Only the formalities remain. They are my responsibility.”
Immediately on the door closing behind Loc, Winter let his head sag forward and massaged the aching muscles in the back of his neck.
Straightening, he drummed fingertips on the chair arms, surveying his office. A GI metal desk, a sofa, three chairs, a coffee table, and three filing cabinets—an unimpressive inventory for a room where a man’s life could be decided.
His vision trailed listlessly across the bare walls, coming to rest on the sole decoration, a large chart. He knew it by heart, a detailed breakdown of the Central Office for South Vietnam. COSVN. A difficult acronym. The communists showed little imagination in their titles.
He wondered if they could approach the Major, let him know he was a priority suspect. If he retreated entirely—dropped the bar and everything connected with it. There’d be no justice in that. His profits would be safe. He’d rotate home with his routine Bronze Star to prove he was a hero. Screw that. Good men died in this goddam place with no medals, no songs, nothing.
Opening his eyes again, he was aware of pain in his forearms. The muscles were bunched and his knuckles gleamed white against his tan from squeezing the arms of the chair. He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed the hurt, sharper bites of pain gave a brief respite from mental misery.
It reminded him of sitting all cramped up in a goose blind on the Maryland eastern shore.
He closed his eyes again and the smell of the bitter autumn wind was suddenly so strong he could analyze its parts—salt tang of the bay, rich loam of the pit, musty odor of camouflaging cattails. There was the touch of strong coffee-and-whiskey from his own breath and the animal scent of the black Labrador that panted with excitement in spite of cold that razored through to the guts.
Then the geese came, high and wary, and the crackling stiffness of the muscles was gone. Faint gabbling wavered down and the birds scanned the decoys. You lifted your call slowly, slowly, and lured the flight to you. Reassured, they banked and began their approach.
Jesus God, they were beautiful. You could see the contrasting stark white and black markings now and hear the powerful wings whistle, stroking the sleek bodies through the air. The polished silver of dawns sun pinioned them against the distant clouds and dark waters of the bay. The Lab whined and trembled. You stood up, throwing the 12-gauge to your shoulder, jamming the butt hard, ignoring the shock of the frigid walnut against outraged cheek. Cursing the wind that teared your eyes, you blinked, lined up the black ball, squeezed the trigger. The lead bird huge—
The sound of the shot was so real Winter lunged bolt upright, slapping splayed hands down on his desk as though trying to keep his balance. He remained immobile for a long moment, orienting himself.
“And now it’s men.” He spoke aloud, tasting bile.
Had it always been men? No, that wasn’t the answer, that was sophomoric psychology. The world war and Korea had been killing on a grand scale but the massive unhumanness of it made it impersonal. The enemy was almost always unseen, some machine hidden on the next hill that kept throwing death until you destroyed it. Then the enemy was a ripped-up bundle of bloody cloth or something charred and stinking or a dazed animal staring a dual prayer at its captors, thankful for continued life and pleading to be allowed to retain it. Sometimes you looked at them with the screams of your own men flaming in your skull and you wanted very much to kill them. But you didn’t, for some reason.
There were executions. In Europe, during the peacetime tours and after the transfer to Intelligence, he’d seen one. It was a simple thing, mundane in i
ts crudity. A trusted agent—and a double. Something had warned the man and he skipped. It was luck that let them capture his handler, and with the capture, the double was a dead man. His only value alive would have been to tell what he’d given the handler and now that information would be recovered. The handler described the double’s escape route. Winter was assigned back-up to the man responsible for running him down. Like hounds, they tracked. Too late at the first stop, they continued. At last, in a depressing greasy port town where the fog smelled like cold garbage, they walked in on him. The double opened his mouth—Winter often wondered if he meant to scream or bargain—and the partner shot him. The only sounds had been the muffled thumping of the silencer, the crash of the body, and the insistent drumming of the double’s right heel. One last bullet put a stop to that. The partner inspected the body and they left. The thing had taken about a minute.
For years afterward, Winter believed he’d seen war reduced to its common denominator. Then he’d been sent to Vietnam for the first time. He’d learned of a different kind of war, where the key ingredient wasn’t violence, but cruelty. All of Southeast Asia had been a battlefield for so long that death wasn’t so much a visitor as a constant companion. The people fought for freedom or to enslave someone else, for plunder or to hold what they had, for riches or to avoid starvation. With the end of World War Two had come the twin panaceas of democracy and communism. The common people, beset by legions of messiahs, understood neither the unfettered freedom of the one or the closely structured organization of the other. Still, they were lovingly herded into one of the faiths, baptized by immersion in propaganda and promises, and set at each other. Centuries of struggle had prepared them well. The result was to provide a unity, a sense of over-all purpose to what had heretofore been a disorganized series of skirmishes. Since 1945 the haphazard taradiddle of the snare drum had been replaced by the world-satisfying roll of tympani.
He rolled the idea of a religious confrontation around in his mind and decided he was one of the earlier prophets. He, his contemporaries, and their mutual adversaries had come on the people with The Word as spoken in .30 caliber and 7.62mm. They had scourged with fire and sword and they were being replaced by latter-day prophets who spoke of a return to peaceful times they didn’t know never existed. In the South they exulted at their cunning in the overturn of the false idol, Diem. In the North they eliminated dissidents with the beatitude of self-castration.