Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  The ultimate cruelty of people dying for unfathomed ideals was being replaced by a return to the prosaic business of people dying in order that the strong should retain their strength.

  Perhaps that was progress.

  After my first year in Vietnam I hated the VC and distrusted the press. In fourteen years the greatest change in myself is that I’ve learned to distrust the VC and hate the press. Surely if God sees me and my enemy as simple animals killing each other in the dust, He must see them as the dispassionate vultures jostling to be the first to peck at our dead eyes?

  Chapter 12

  The rough brick was cool and relieved the pounding in Taylor’s head. There had been no way to refuse the constantly refilled glass. Hours earlier Trung had contemptuously abandoned his amateurish cheating and simply handed out cards. One of the women would provide a clumsy distraction and Taylor was assured of an excellent hand—second-best at the table. Now, standing outside with his host, he was having no trouble pretending to be drunk. On the contrary, he’d have trouble pretending to be sober. The idea amused him. Steadying himself with a hand, he levered himself away from the wall and laughed.

  The sound filled him with doubt. Was it all right to laugh? He decided it was. He was drunk, wasn’t he? And he’d left chits for thousands of dollars in Trung’s apartment. It was a hell of a way to fight a war. He allowed himself to fold gently back against the wall, laughing harder.

  “You OK?”

  Trung’s nervousness reminded him he’d have to make his way through the curfew-blackened city. It was a disturbing prospect. He brushed away the other man’s stabilizing grasp and lurched a few feet toward the main street where a light gleamed. A beacon. Someone he knew had a smile like a beacon. He tried to remember who it was.

  No time for smiles. Long frigging walk ahead—nothing to smile about.

  “I’m awright.” He brushed irritably at the hand reaching for his shoulder and thrust his own into his pocket, coming out with a wallet.

  “What I owe you? Goin’ home now, gotta pay. How much? Take MPC?” He felt for the wall and leaned back again, waving a finger at Trung. “You want green dollars, go piss up a rope. MPC’s illegal, green dollars illegaler. No got green.” He stood erect, dignity marred by imbalance. “I always pay debts. Honor.”

  “I have car. I take home. Maybe someone thief you. Maybe MP pick up. You drunk. Big trouble.” Trung continued to pluck at Taylor’s sleeve.

  A swing of the larger man’s arm sent Trung away and up against the other wall. “Want MPs,” Taylor declared. “They won’t ‘rest me. I’m Supply. They all want something. I got the keys. No sweat.” He stuffed the wallet back in his pocket. “See you in a couple days. You add up what I owe you, OK?”

  Trung stood away, absently rubbing the shoulder that had scraped the wall. In a way, he hoped someone would smash the drunken imbecile weaving into the light at the end of the alley. As long as he didn’t get damaged too badly, he amended. If the American died a lot of whiskey had been wasted. A broken arm would be satisfactory.

  On the main street, Taylor braced and began taking deep breaths, arching his back and stretching his shoulders to pull more air into his lungs. Then he began the trek home.

  For the first couple of blocks the only sound was the echoing crack of his boot heels on the sidewalk. Then, in the distance, a truck crescendoed through its gears. It complained its way into the distance. The rhythm of his pace was alone again.

  At the turn onto Cong Ly he heard the new sound. Without changing stride he looked back as he turned the corner. A car with no lights on eased out of a side street, coming his way. While his mind assured him it was nothing, the accumulated tension of the night seemed to snap in him all at once and he felt the surge of adrenalin. He quickened his pace, covering a block with no sign of the car coming after him. In the middle of the next one he looked over his shoulder once more, ridiculing himself.

  The car slid around the corner and the headlights flashed on, the twin spears of light preceding the turning machine like the lowered horns of a bull.

  The distance between them made it unlikely that the driver could see him. He increased his pace to reach a doorway and ducked into it, squatting on one knee, cursing the liquor as his fingers seemed to fumble eternally with the Beretta holstered to his ankle.

  The gun had the stopping power of a gnat. He cursed it too. All he could hope for was to spoil someone’s aim. The headlights built shadows that grew more distinct as the car hummed down the street. Taylor desperately wanted not to die in a stinking, saliva-spotted doorway.

  The car stopped, the unconcerned clattering of the engine obscene. Taylor tried to squeeze lower just as the beam of a flashlight struck the opposite wall, reflected light pinning him like a specimen on a tray. He drew back into the corner, the pistol aimed out and slightly upward. A moth danced across the doorway, heading for the light source.

  “Taylor?”

  Relief shivered through his whole body. “Who’s that? Is that you, Denby?”

  “Denby? Hell, no, not Denby. Is me, Duc. You OK?”

  Taylor rose slowly, hand trembling as he re-holstered the automatic. He stepped into the glare, one hand shielding his eyes.

  “Turn that thing off, man, you’re blinding me.”

  He slid in beside Duc.

  “Why you ask Denby?” Duc was indignant. “I not sound like that clown.”

  Taylor leaned back luxuriously. “I thought it was your voice. I was sure it was Vietnamese, and I knew it wasn’t Denby’s. I figured if it was a Vietnamese who said he was Denby, I had to get in the first shot. All you guys sound alike, man.”

  “All Americans look alike, man.”

  “Viets are sneaky.”

  “Americans are rich.”

  Taylor reached out in the dark and shoved Duc’s shoulder and they both began to laugh uproariously. Taylor finally coughed to a stop.

  “Buddy, you scared me spitless! How’d you know where to find me? And why the tail? I thought I was a fucking statistic, for sure. What’s going on?”

  Duc started the engine. His answer came in Vietnamese. “Loc has been worrying about no guarantees, as Denby put it.” He whipped the car through a U-turn on the deserted street, starting back toward the city. “He decided we need someone inside the club. Winter finally agreed with him. It was decided to approach Tuyet.”

  “He’s wasting time,” Taylor said scornfully. “She’s one hard bitch. What’s all that got to do with scaring me out of my mind?”

  “Colonel Tho is still talking to her. He wishes to avoid telling her you are involved with us. She is to think her information is for Tho’s use, not for your protection. He thinks you may be able to help him with some knowledge of her, and I knew you were with Trung.”

  The whiskey crept back into Taylor’s blood. He rolled his head from side to side and sucked at the cool rush of night air.

  “I’ve heard some hard things about Tho, Duc. He’s not working her over, is he?”

  Duc twisted his face and pursed his lips. In the half-light it made him look like a chubby child exposed to long division for the first time.

  “I do not know. Maybe not. Loc and Winter told him he could pay her any reasonable amount.” He nodded to himself. “I do not think she will make trouble.”

  They sped along the deserted streets with no more conversation until they pulled into a driveway where an armed Vietnamese trooper blocked their way. As he checked identification a second man came out of the darkness carrying a bomb detection mirror attached to a long pole. He passed it along the bottom of the car on both sides, waved to the armed sentry, and retreated to the shadows. The sentry saluted them through.

  “Where are we, Duc?”

  “An interrogation center.” There was something in the answer that made Taylor turn to look at him. Duc concentrated on parking. The pressure of the silence finally forced him to continue. “It is used for special prisoners, not connected with Special Branch or MSS.”
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  He turned off the ignition and got out, proceeding into the square building without waiting for Taylor to catch up. As he crossed the threshold he lit a cigarette and Taylor overtook him.

  “What’s eating you, Duc? We’re here, man—you might as well tell me.”

  Duc dropped the cigarette. “Maybe nothing. I do not like this place.”

  A sleepy duty clerk got to his feet at their approach.

  “We are here to see Trung Ta Tho,” Duc said.

  The clerk said, “He is in the room at the end of the hall, Thieu Ta. He said you were to knock and wait in the hall.”

  The mismatched strides of the two men pounded an unsyncopated drumbeat in the dim passageway. An undersized bulb dangled from a ceiling cord ahead of them, its tremulous light seized by the darkness and dissipated before it could do more than call attention to the dull gray of the walls. Taylor realized they were walking a cell block, the evenly spaced doors solid except for a barred spyhole four inches square in the center of each. He approached the small, lighted area impatiently, trying to determine what lay beyond it, trying to analyze the smell that clawed his nostrils. A few steps breached the weary pool of light. One last door faced them at the base of the hall. As Duc rapped on it, Taylor was able to identify part of the stink as a mixture of sweat and disinfectant. It was a heavy smell that seemed to coagulate as it hit the throat. The door swung open quickly and Tho slipped into the hall. In that instant Taylor damned himself for not recognizing the other odor. It was fear.

  Tho closed the door, leaning on it as he extracted a cigarette and offered the pack. Taylor took one.

  “Your affair with Trung went well?” Tho asked.

  “Perfectly. I understand you have Tuyet.”

  Tho indicated the door.

  “Why?”

  “It is necessary. If you are being tricked, we have no way of knowing. We do not want you lost.”

  “I do not think they suspect me.”

  Tho smiled as he flicked ashes. “You do not know it. We are trying to establish an informant who can find out before it is too late. If they ever suspect you and you are not forewarned, it could be very unfortunate.”

  “I go armed, Trung Ta.”

  “I know.” Tho was sober. “I think it would be a mistake for them to challenge you. That is the truth. You are a brave man, but you are only a man, nevertheless, and they would never give you an opportunity to defend yourself. It is not your courage or your life that concerns us the most. It is the Unit. You would tell them too much.”

  Taylor felt heat building in his body. Tho pressed on.

  “The woman sits in the far right corner of the room. There are strong lights in her face. She will not know you have entered. You must not speak. She must never suspect you are connected with us. She believes we only came about Trung, Tu, and An because we suspect them of black market activity. We have not mentioned you, nor has she. We have learned interesting things from her, but she refuses to work for us. Is there anything you can think of that might help us convince her that cooperation is safe and wise?”

  Taylor massaged his scalp. The first faint pressure of a headache was building. It would be hammering in a little while. “I can’t think of a thing. We speak only of money, the PX, Trung—I know almost nothing about her.”

  A grimace squeezed one of Tho’s eyes shut. “What a mercenary bitch she is! How can anyone speak on so many occasions and never mention home, friends, family? No interest in anything but money!”

  “She mentioned once that she has always lived in Saigon. She was gossiping about some of the other girls and she said something about her sisters. I cannot say if she meant the other girls in the bar or real sisters.”

  A short gesture dismissed the matter. “No worry, no worry. We shall see if she has reconsidered.”

  They stepped into the room quickly, Duc and Taylor immediately side-stepping to the left, where they backed against the wall. A dull glow filled the large room, the backblast from four massive pole-mounted lamps aimed directly into the corner. In their glare, Tuyet squinted uncomfortably in an attempt to see beyond them. She sat in a large, cumbersome chair, her slight figure minimized and refined by its bulk. She raised a hand to shield her eyes.

  “Stop!”

  Taylor recognized the voice as Sergeant Chi detached from the far wall, seeming to materialize. Tuyet’s hand dropped quickly back to her lap.

  Tho settled into a smaller chair, just outside the stark bulbs. The chair squeaked.

  “Trung Ta?” Her voice was rough with exhaustion, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “Is it you?”

  Tho’s silence disturbed Taylor more than any answer. He caught himself rubbing his hand on the opposite sleeve, drying the palm. He looked at it and his eye was caught by the rapid movement of Duc’s lower jaw as he chewed his lip.

  “Please, may I go home now?” The tired plaintiveness was totally different from the coarse wheedling Taylor was used to. “I have helped you. I have told you everything I know. If they knew what I have said, they would kill me. Please let me leave this place.”

  “I am tired too,” Tho answered. “Soon it will be dawn.” He put a match to a fresh cigarette and Tuyet’s eyes leaped to focus on the flame as a sign of life outside her enclosure.

  “You have told us much, and that is to your credit,” Tho went on. “However, I have offered you a generous salary for continued cooperation and you have refused. I have no wish to repeat this type of tiresome effort when I wish to know something of the dogs who employ you. Do you wish to go through this every time I have need of information?”

  Tuyet’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where the match had flared. “It is too dangerous. They will kill me. I am afraid.” Twin tears puddled down her cheeks.

  Oppressive silence amplified the darkness. When Tho spoke, his voice was softer, giving it a disembodied quality.

  “Life is full of fear. And danger. You are so afraid of these men that you will refuse to help your government? Even for the money I have offered?”

  She leaned forward to bury her face in her hands, her voice muffled as she sobbed, “Yes, yes! I am sorry!”

  “These are painful times,” Tho said, and the silence followed the words until broken again by Tuyet’s sobs. She peered at the darkness, fearful hope lifting her brows.

  Tho sighed heavily. “You may stand now,” he said.

  With pained agility, Tuyet raised herself from the chair, pushing against it with both hands. As soon as she was able, she brushed the tears from her face, continuing to stare where she thought Tho to be. She took a graceless step forward.

  “I can go home now?”

  “Remove your clothes.” Tho’s voice was no louder than before. Still, it raised the hair on Taylor’s neck. He spun to face Duc.

  “What’s—?” He got no further as Duc, anticipating, grabbed his bicep and squeezed. He put his finger to his lips and shook his head violently. Taylor jerked his arm free and fell heavily against the wall.

  “Clothes?” Tuyet’s mouth formed the word and then slacked open foolishly.

  “Now!” Tho shouted and the shattering volume of the harsh command caused both men against the wall to start and they bumped together hard enough to stagger Duc. He caught himself, never taking his eyes from the back of Tho’s neck. As the echo died, a single sleep-ridden moan drifted into the room from one of the cells down the hall. Taylor had to try twice to swallow.

  The woman’s startled reaction flung her backwards. She caught herself, avoiding a fall by clutching at the arms of the chair. Her face grew vacant as she unbuttoned the blouse and dropped it to the floor. Only after she looked down at the soft mound of color on the floor did the impact of her situation appear to penetrate her mind. Her eyes widened slowly, her whole body trembled, and a gleaming layer of perspiration silvered her flesh. She folded her arms across her breasts.

  “What are you going to do?”

  The boredom in Tho’s answer frightened her almost as terr
ibly as his earlier shout. “Your virtue is in no danger, little whore. Do as I have told you or my assistant will help you.”

  Her eyes darted around the walling light, seeking, and at the sound of a scraping boot, she hastily fumbled at the buttons of her skirt and stepped out of it. She stood, crouched over, in black bra and panties of yellow with two red valentine hearts embroidered on the hip. The incongruity screamed in Taylor’s mind and nervous laughter scrambled in his throat. He reached for the door to escape. Again, Duc’s hand clamped on his bicep. When Taylor turned to curse him, the pained sternness of the smaller man stopped him. The American wiped a sweaty cheek with an equally wet hand and waited.

  “The rest,” Tho said, and Tuyet mechanically stripped herself naked.

  “Sit down.”

  She eased into the chair, elbows in her lap, hiding her face in her hands. Long silken hair hung almost to her thighs, cloaking her in a mourning shawl.

  Sergeant Chi stepped into the light, kicking the clothes into the darkness. From his pocket he pulled rolled athletic bandages. In a matter of seconds, Tuyet was bound, arms and legs firmly lashed to the corresponding parts of the chair. A separate lashing held her firmly against the back. The unnaturally erect position vividly outlined the musculature of her stomach and her breasts pointed tautly upward, the nipples in constant tremor from her ragged breathing and shivering.

  Chi left, then re-entered the circle. He bent quickly in front of her, then left again. Her bulging eyes stared wildly at two wired clips attached to her index fingers.

  “Those are attached to a small telephone generator,” Tho lectured clinically. Another match flared and died. A jet of smoke boiled into the circle to join Tuyet, where the heat from the lights whisked it up and out of sight. “When I turn this handle, it creates electricity.”