Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  Taylor managed a thin smile. “Don’t get me started on the media. I’ll end up defending Tho.”

  Winter laughed aloud again, mocking. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about any of it. Why don’t you go clean up and get some sleep? You’re a disgrace. You Marines attract dirt.”

  “Yessir!” Taylor opened the door and turned. “You know, that’s odd. That’s exactly what they told me at Headquarters Marine Corps when they said I was being assigned to work with the Army.”

  The quickly slammed door muffled an outraged roar.

  Chapter 14

  Taylor conceded the sin of pride. He sipped his beer, scanning the Friendly Bar, and mused that he had a perfect right to gloat.

  The operation was working.

  More, he’d never have to visit this place again. That alone made the evening great.

  The ammunition was delivered. The transmitters were a marvel, working like little charms. For almost two weeks they’d all been holding their collective breaths, but there’d been no sign their work had been discovered.

  Perhaps this meeting would tell them otherwise. A pulse hammered in Taylor’s temples as he thought about that possibility. His eyes took in the club once again.

  Harker sat at the bar, sipping beer. Just another customer. Captain Allen was at one of the tables. The thought of that urbane Ivy Leaguer in a dump like the Friendly made him smile to himself while he drew a neat chain of linked circles with the bottom of his sweating glass. Allen was so well-connected back in the States he’d been snatched up by Winter to drift through society in Saigon. As tall as Taylor and darkly handsome, his job was to seine useful information from the constant flow of rumor and gossip. He complained constantly about what he called his “booze and bullshit” circuit and begged to be part of this operation. Taylor hardly dared look his way. The picture of that muscularly elegant and graceful figure matching fake passions with the ugly whore sharing his table was too much to bear without laughing.

  Taylor decided he was still unsuspected. Tuyet’s greeting had been warm as ever, an obsequious taint noticeable only if you knew what to look for. The bartender’s smile was still that of a scornful conspirator. Taylor idly wondered how much the bartender actually knew, quickly dismissing the question. It was something that’d come out later. And not that much later, he corrected himself. This was the crunch, redeeming the IOUs. He imagined the expressions on the faces of the three when the whole scam unrolled in front of them. The realization that he was grinning made him jerk the glass to his mouth again, spilling beer on his blouse. It splashed into a large stain directly over the transmitter taped to his chest. He dabbed at it with his handkerchief, his nose practically touching the spot.

  “Duc, can you hear me? If you can, give me three quick beeps on the horn!”

  An answering triple blat penetrated the murmur in the bar and Taylor blessed the unknown soul who’d forgotten to turn on the stereo. The thought of losing contact when it was time to bust Trung, Tu, and An was unpleasant. And if he shorted the radio with a lousy spilled beer, Winter’d crucify him.

  Tuyet stepped from the dark end of the room into the lighted area by the barstools, showing him a smile. She indicated the trio following her, then rejoined the chattering covey of bar girls. From the corner of his eye, Taylor saw Allen swivel in his booth, the woman turning with him like a thorny branch.

  “You have the—papers?” Taylor tried to sound like a frightened victim.

  Trung shook his head, smiling gently. “Have in my apartment. You want now?”

  Eagerly, Taylor said, “Yes, yes. I must have. Now. Quick. Please.” He wondered if he was overdoing it.

  Trung seemed to think not. “No sweat. All OK. We go now.” He turned to the other two. “We will go to the apartment to finish this, as planned.”

  Tu nodded, not bothering to look at Taylor. His eyes swept the room.

  An grinned. “The frightened fool.” The words were conversational, carrying no warning for anyone unfamiliar with the language. He nodded pleasantly at Taylor. “How did such stupid people become so wealthy?”

  Taylor half-smiled in return, facing Trung. “Is he saying we go now?”

  Trung guided him toward the door, his hand light on Taylor’s elbow. “Yes, deal fini. Go get papers.”

  They rode to Trung’s apartment in pregnant silence.

  Trung lived on the top floor of a three-story building set flush against a narrow alley. Cars, motorcycles, and bicycles stood parked in solid order in the front, or street side, with each available millimeter accounted for, save one car-sized gap directly in front of Trung’s entryway. The blank space always waited for Trung’s car.

  They stepped from the street into a hallway leading to the central core of the building. The whole had been designed as a square around an open shaft, permitting a maximum flow of air through the rooms. The lower level acted as a courtyard. As they climbed the stairs that zigzagged up each inner wall, the lingering smells of cooking swirled around them. A tiny face, child-curious eyes shuttering in fascination at the sight of an American, peered from behind a curtain. Instantly, it was gone, the billowing cloth filtering muttered mother sounds.

  The face was the first inhabitant Taylor had seen. There were other family evening sounds, like the nervous mother—an occasional raised voice, someone hawking and spitting, music, laughter—but never a glimpse of another human. The group’s footsteps on the stairs could have been the coughing of tigers, sending the lesser creatures scurrying. Waiting for Trung to unlock his door, Taylor looked down into the shaft and watched lights going out, one here, another there, a third across the way on the next level down. It was like seeing people in a crowd close their eyes to something disturbing. A radio in one of the apartments flowed melody, a girl’s clear voice singing of love and happiness.

  A perfunctory tap on his shoulder moved Taylor into the sparsely furnished living room, maneuvering to insure he had first option on the chair closest to the door.

  He held his hand out toward Trung. “The paper. Give paper. I go.”

  Trung denied him with a gracious host’s gesture. “Have drink. I see movies, business in America do with drink. We same-same business, OK?” He lifted a bottle of Scotch and four glasses from the bookshelf, pouring without waiting for an answer.

  Taylor eased himself into the chair.

  “Why waste time?” An complained. “I want to see him squirm.” He turned to smile at Taylor. “You ugly white worm.”

  Tu’s laugh was scornful. “How fierce you are! If he frowned and farted, your heart would stop!”

  An’s voice rose, “You cannot insult me!”

  “Be careful, little miser.” Tu’s laugh quieted to a lopsided smile as he took his drink from Trung.

  “Both of you be careful,” Trung said, handing the next drink to Taylor. “The shock of what I tell him will be greater if you do not make him nervous. It will be much more entertaining.”

  “What’s going on?” Taylor protested. “What they say?”

  Trung made himself comfortable on the sofa next to An, handing over the remaining drink and tasting his own before answering.

  “Not important. They just talk. We talk business.”

  The cords in Taylor’s neck strained and he remembered to look puzzled, maintaining his facade. A sense of apprehension lent veracity to signs of nervousness. There were no sounds of footsteps on the stairs or on the access balcony outside.

  “Business?” he repeated. “No business. I get ammunition, you give paper. No more business.” He cut across his body with a flat hand.

  Tu interrupted. “Enough. Tell him he will cooperate or we will expose him. If his conscience bothers him I will kill him now and we will be through.” He bit at a fingernail. “We should kill him anyhow. He is a traitor. How can we trust him?”

  Taylor looked from one to the other as Trung took up the argument. “There is no trust. He will cooperate to protect himself. We will let him make a little money. I wi
ll conduct this matter because I speak the barbarian language and I amuse myself as I choose.”

  When he turned his attention back to Taylor, his face was no longer that of the merchant. There was a hard dedication there, a change as surprising as a shout in the night.

  “No paper. You work us now.”

  An was laughing happily at the American’s stunned fear when the door exploded inward. Harker bounced into the room, crouching in a wide-footed stance, the shotgun in his hands a malignant blue-black magnet for the eyes of the three Orientals. For the space of three heartbeats it swung across them, daring motion. An’s laughter died, his face a study in disbelief. Trung sat rigid, only his eyes moving with the barrel of the shotgun. Tu leaned forward, watching, timing.

  “Tu!” Taylor shouted. “If you move, you die!”

  Hearing Taylor speak in Vietnamese seemed to deflate him. He spat a wordless hate at the Marine and slumped backwards.

  Captain Allen stepped through the doorway, sidling behind the other Americans until he could bring his own shotgun to bear on the three prisoners. He moved with an assurance that surprised Taylor. Arched dark brows over the blue-green eyes showed his controlled excitement and his nostrils flared with each breath. Long-fingered hands grasped the ugliness of the weapon with firm competence. Even in that pressurized moment, Taylor saw him as an underweight linebacker determined to make a game-saving tackle.

  Taylor got to his feet. “An! Get up slowly, hands on your head. Walk to that man.” He pointed to Harker, saying “Shake him down.” An glared and moved.

  “You are very clever,” Trung spoke up. He rolled his eyes to concentrate on Allen’s shotgun. “We never suspected you understood our language.” He shrugged, raising his palms almost level with his shoulders.

  As Taylor turned to check on Harker, Trung lunged from his chair and dove at Allen. The Captain’s eyes flew wide open. He slid his left foot back, swinging his weight to the right and forward. The butt of the shotgun snapped upward between Trung’s outstretched arms. There was a squashing sound, like over-ripe fruit dropping from the tree, and Trung stopped immediately. The follow-through of the butt-stroke threw his head back until the column of his throat stretched smooth. He collapsed backwards, eyes rolled to expose only whites, and Allen whipped the muzzle of the shotgun down to hover within inches of Tu’s face.

  At the same time Taylor heard Harker’s surprised grunt and whirled to see him sagging downward, his face wadded with pain. He clung to the shotgun desperately while An wrestled for it. The smaller man sensed Taylor’s approach and darted through the door. Harker fell forward, blood staining his left side. He groaned as Taylor raced in pursuit of An.

  He was headed for the stairwell and suddenly broke, running past it. As he did, Duc charged up onto the landing. He turned and aimed carefully at An’s fleeing back.

  Knocking the automatic aside, Taylor whispered hoarsely, “No! He’s going for the roof. I’ll get him. Help Harker and Allen!”

  Taylor ran to the stairs leading to the roof, checked the narrow passage closely, then began a slow climb, clinging to the wall. He wondered if An would find anything heavy to throw down at him. Or jump down himself. He sprinted the last few steps and threw himself out onto the flat roof, rolling to his right, then scrambled straight ahead until he crouched against the retaining wall at the roof’s perimeter. He held his breath and listened for movement. There was only the traffic and the thudding in his chest.

  He stood up and shouted into the darkness. “An! There is no other way down! It is finished!”

  A car door slammed on the street, strangely mocking. Taylor’s vision adjusted to the dimness on the roof. On the far end of the building, directly over what would be Trung’s apartment, there was a three-sided shelter, the kind the women used for shade while hanging and sorting laundry. It was the only break in the featureless surface. He approached it cautiously, feeling like a man advancing on a cornered animal.

  An had surprised Harker during the scramble between Trung and Allen—that alone was enough to make a man think. The little bastard was more than he’d anticipated, Taylor admitted to himself. So was Trung. And now things were screwed up, but good.

  He stopped and listened again.

  Nothing.

  Approaching the shelter, he circled it slowly, occasionally dropping to the roof to look upward, hoping to silhouette his quarry against the luminosity of the clouds.

  The shelter was empty. Taylor squatted with his back to the retaining wall, confused and angry.

  On impulse, he looked over the wall at the sheer drop to the alley. There was no place to hide and it was too far to jump. He checked the other walls, and they were identical. All that was left was the courtyard side.

  He looked over, and there was a small ledge, no more than a foot wide, running parallel to the wall. Slowly, he stalked it, straining to see the humped irregularity that would be An.

  It didn’t take long. He saw the figure from a distance, back toward the rooftop shelter. It was stretched out face down, wedged into the cement intersection, trying to be invisible. Taylor stepped away from the wall and hurried forward until he was immediately adjacent to the spot. Then he inched forward on all fours until only the wall separated them. He waited and was finally rewarded by a faint scratching as An shifted position. Standing, Taylor looked directly down on An’s back.

  “Come up!”

  An twitched and his left hand clawed frantically at the outside edge of the shelf. Steadying himself, he twisted his head to stare, one-eyed, over his shoulder at Taylor.

  “I will never surrender!” The ragged voice reinforced Taylor’s earlier thought of searching for a cornered animal. An went on, “If you move toward me, I will jump!”

  Taylor lifted a foot onto the parapet. “Jump, then, mother-fucker.”

  An twisted further to insure his one eye was looking at the right person. Taylor said, “You are useless. I can get no information from you. All you are good for is finding drivers and I know who they are. You are nothing. You know nothing. Jump. It will be interesting to see.”

  An’s voice skated on the rim of hysteria. “If I go to prison they will torture me! They will ask me questions I cannot answer and they will not believe me and they will torture me more!”

  “If you tell me the truth, there will be no torture. You have my word. But I do not care if you surrender. If you do not, you will not have to jump.” He bent over An. “I am going to push you.”

  The glinting spot of An’s eye winked as he closed it. A shiver ran through his body and when he opened his eye to look at Taylor again, its luster seemed to have dimmed. His voice was defeated.

  “If I had not dropped my knife crawling out here, I would fight you. I could have killed you while you crashed about out there.” He pushed tentatively against the ledge and inhaled noisily. “You will have to help me. I think your man broke my arm. The left is all right, but I must hold onto the roof with that hand.”

  Taylor reached to wrap his fingers around the small man’s belt. His fist showed against the shirt as a blob that spanned most of the other’s back. The wall was just high enough for Taylor to brace his knees against it and crane An backwards onto his feet. He reached with his right hand to steady An as he came erect.

  His hand contacted An’s shoulder as his eyes told him the smaller man was thrusting at his exposed stomach with a knife. His ears registered the shrill wheeze forced out of the man by the effort. Instinctively, he thrust away with the hand on An’s shoulder. Unbalanced, An spun, the blade stabbing harmlessly at the sky. The slight body pivoted outward and Taylor bent quickly, letting his knees jam against the wall again, taking the jar of An’s weight with his thighs and back muscles. His arm strained less than he’d expected and the belt held. An hung over the void, scrabbling to keep his feet on the ledge, his arms waving.

  For a moment there was only the sound of rapid breathing and the scrape of leather on the cement. Then, from the balcony under them, the ai
r was full of Harker’s rattling moan. The knife in An’s hand gleamed and Taylor saw it rip Harker’s belly and felt the searing rip of muscles severing and peeling back on themselves. A harsh cry left an even greater following silence and Taylor’s imaginings stopped.

  Pulling his thumb from under the belt, he opened his hand, imparting a gentle forward motion to the angled body. It appeared to dangle momentarily as the arms whirled in frenzied circles. An said, “Uh?” with infinite incredulity as he fluttered toward the courtyard.

  At the hollow impact of his body, the broken blade of the knife went tinkling across a lone gush of light from a lower floor window. Before the echoes stopped whispering in the corners of the shaft, the light disappeared and the courtyard was a black pit.

  Taylor hurried from the roof to the balcony where Harker lay against the wall. He rounded on Duc. “Is he alive? Has anyone called the ambulance?”

  Duc said, “He said it would make noise. He asked me to call for a jeep from the Unit. It will be here in minutes.”

  “He’s bleeding like a bastard. Call the goddam ambulance.”

  Harker drew a shuddering breath as he reached for Taylor. “No ambulance.” His speech was more controlled aspiration than words. “Duc checked—cut’s not bad—not deep. Keep things quiet.” He sucked in air again. “Kicked me, Major. Hurts. Own fault.” An attempt at a sheepish grin turned into a spasm and he turned his head and retched.

  Gently, Taylor disengaged himself from Harker’s grip and entered the apartment. Trung was conscious again, seated on the sofa next to Tu. The latter looked his hatred, then resumed the study of his shoes. Trung watched Taylor coldly, his sleek grooming shattered by blood and disarray, the eyes above the battered mouth alert through their pain.