Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  “I can’t believe you said that. Not even a Vietnamese could be so tied up in family he’d give a damn if Trung died.”

  “Probably,” Winter conceded and sighed. “I’m walking through the swamp blindfolded again, but I think we’re being offered a deal. Free Trung and we can keep Tu. Remember, his name’s never come up.”

  “And as soon as Trung hits the bricks, he talks to anyone who’ll listen and Binh’s back at the stand.”

  Winter appeared to mull that, unfavorably, and Taylor moved on. “There’s another thing. Trung may be able to make Harker and Allen, and he’s got me for sure. If he turns us, things’ll hot up fast for us. He knows Tho and Chi, too. You let that mother loose, you’re liable to end up with a roster full of blank spaces. As acting spokesman for us potential targets, may I say, sir, we don’t cotton to that shit.”

  “You silver-tongued devil.” Winter laughed as he checked his watch. “Maybe I can use your oratorical genius. I’m going to make a pitch down at State this morning. Get the jeep and meet me out front.”

  Taylor started to leave. “This about Trung?”

  Winter continued to rummage in his desk until he found his .38 and had it in the shoulder holster. “Yeah. The waves have reached them, too. I’m seeing a Mr. Carr.”

  When Taylor went to his own office after the keys he found Duc waiting.

  “You hear about prick Binh?”

  “Just left Winter. Everything’s going to hell fast.”

  “You better believe. What we do now?”

  “How do I know?” Taylor stirred the accumulation of incoming papers on his desk. “Maybe you could immigrate to the states. The Mafia could use a hit man who takes in laundry.”

  “Honky bassert.”

  “When’ll you learn? There’s a ‘t’ in the middle and a ‘d’ on the end. ‘Bastard,’ not ‘bassert.’ ”

  “Never mind how I say. You know what I say.”

  “Too true. Listen, seriously, I’ve been talking to Winter. I still think he ought to give Trung to us.”

  Duc blinked, shifting mental gears. “I tell same thing Colonel Loc. He say too much complicate.”

  “Well, we tried. I’m going down to the embassy with Winter now. An appointment to talk about Trung. Maybe he’ll work something out.”

  Stretching, Duc said, “Maybe. I don’t think so.”

  “You know something?”

  The answering shrug was as lazy as the stretch. “I know too much you not know. Especial I know your embassy. They not help you on thing like this.”

  “What’s this? Today your day to hate Americans?”

  “Not hate all Americans. Don’t know all Americans. Only know honky bas-tar-dis.”

  “Sergeant Miller won’t be happy if you call him a honky.”

  In the sing-song English of the streets, Duc said, “Black honky, white honky, all same-same poor Vietnamese.”

  Taylor made as if to leave, and Duc reached to touch his sleeve. “Now you be serious. You hurt leg Vung Tau. You also act funny. Different. I see Kimble and Corporal—they look very different. What happen Vung Tau?”

  “Nothing, really. Kimble got bad news from home and made a damned fool of himself and I twisted my ankle on the beach, that’s all.”

  Duc turned his head, ending up looking at Taylor from the corner of his eye. “Maybe you, Kimble bullshit Winter. I not think so. You not bullshit Duc. Too much I know you. You not want speak, OK. Remember, you need help, you tell Duc first. You get it?”

  Taylor made a great show of stalking out of the office. Duc’s voice trailed after him, back into the street rhythms, “Come back, GI! Give me Sa-lem, OK?”

  Taylor was still grinning when he got to the jeep where Winter waited.

  “What’re you grinning about?”

  Pulling away from the villa, Taylor said, “Duc’s got a new word. Honky. He’s working it out on me.”

  Winter grunted. “Swell. Cultural interchange at work.”

  They swept through the gate and into traffic. Winter was suddenly upright, hanging on with both hands, as Taylor switched lanes in a race with a truck. He nipped into a minute gap and immediately braked for a traffic blockage. The driver behind blatted his horn and shouted unintelligible complaint.

  “Jesus, you’re as bad as the rest of them.”

  Taylor raced the engine. When the light changed, the jeep leaped into motion. Winter improved his handholds.

  “You’re pretty wound up, Tay. Now slow down and sort of flow with the tide for a while. You get me killed and the State Department will be absolutely furious.”

  “Sorry,” Taylor said. “I guess the scene with Kimble hit me harder than I thought.” He eased off on the gas.

  “Harder than I’d have thought, too.” There was a crackle in Winter’s voice, but when Taylor turned to look, the blunt features were aimed dead ahead, guileless. Unnoticing, or ignoring, Taylor’s move, he continued to make conversation.

  “This meeting should be an education for you. That’s why you’re coming along. This Mr. Carr and myself are going to be deciding a man’s fate. He’s our mutual enemy. And I’ll bet you my soul, or what I have left of it, Mr. Carr’ll literally be Trung’s advocate.”

  “That’s prejudging the man.”

  “Why not? The message sending for me said, I quote, ‘Mr. Trung’s continued well-being is a source of concern to the government of the United States.’ ”

  “So what can you hope to accomplish? Why bother?”

  “That’s where my experience in this war comes in! Instead of telling Mr. Carr how we can develop a proper legal case against Trung, I’m going to lie through my teeth and do what my moral judgement tells me is correct. What half my moral judgement says, anyhow. The other half’ll be screaming while I do it.”

  Taylor headed for the curb across the street from the embassy and Winter altered his position, ready to get out. The jeep continued over the curb and across the sidewalk, groaning to a stop under a huge billboard.

  Winter hopped to the ground. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I always park here when I come to the embassy. Nobody cares and the billboard throws some shade on the seats.” He ran the chain through the steering wheel and locked it. “Which half of your soul is going to do your suffering in there?”

  The question pulled Winter’s mind from the parking situation and the disbelief gave way to the returning frown.

  “The half that knows both Carr and I should be eliminating people like Trung and whoever’s helping him. This isn’t my first time down this road, although I’ve never dealt with anyone as high-up as Carr. What scares me most is that none of our friends from the Agency’ll be there. We’re cold alone on all of this. I feel like some dumb cop who’s ticketed the Mayor’s son. Only here we’ve got people fixing tickets for guys who’re killing us.”

  They waited silently for the traffic light to change and when they were able to move, both men instinctively sought out an interstice in the crowd around them before resuming the talk.

  Taylor said, “I told you, Colonel, give me a little time and I’ll fix it.”

  “You may have to.” He looked straight ahead and his voice reminded Taylor of bare branches. “I’m about out of ideas.”

  They paralleled the gleaming white wall surrounding the equally white building, the whole an imperturbable iceberg thrown down into the heat as though by a god with a taste for irony. A bored Marine in a guard tower at the end of the wall watched them pass through the gate. Immediately inside the building another Marine, immaculate in every detail, waited for them. He saluted.

  “Good morning, Colonel, Major. Can I help you, sir?”

  Taylor kept a straight face. The Sergeant’s greeting was better than proper, it was friendly. It also carried the strong suggestion that if the Sergeant couldn’t help you, you didn’t belong on his turf.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Carr. Major Taylor is accompanying me.”

  The Serg
eant rattled off a room number without referring to a directory and indicated the elevator to their left.

  The secretary who welcomed them to Carr’s waiting room provided coffee and chatted easily about restaurant prices and her upcoming trip to Hong Kong. Taylor listened, avoiding leaning against the chair and plastering his skivvy shirt against his back. A buzzer sounded and the woman smiled a goodbye for them, pointing at a door next to her.

  The first sight of Carr was encouraging. A short, wiry man with a precise mustache, he smiled broadly and stepped from behind his desk, shaking hands with a firm grip. A jacket, shirt, and tie on a hanger behind him gave Taylor hope the casual shirt on his back indicated his true character. He had coffee brought in for himself and Taylor, Winter refusing, and started the conversation with a question for Taylor.

  “What’s a Marine doing here in the big city? I thought all of you were in I Corps or else protecting us in this building from the VC.”

  Taylor looked at Winter before answering. “I can’t be sure, Mr. Carr. Some of us think we’re doing public penance.”

  He was pleased to see Carr enjoy the dig, and his hope for a compromise with the man took another step. Winter’s attitude loosened, too, but the wary shift of his eyes was still there.

  Carr wasted no more time on the periphery of their meeting. “I understand we have a problem,” he said to Winter.

  “We do indeed. You mind if I smoke?”

  Carr extended a box of cigars. “Try one of these. Philippine.”

  Winter hesitated and Carr added, “Please. I’d like your opinion. I think they approximate Havanas.”

  After a sniff, Winter winked at Taylor. “We’re in trouble. We haven’t been in the man’s office ten minutes, and he’s found my price.”

  Carr chuckled. “I wish it was always that easy. I have a suspicion it may not be today, either.”

  Lighting the cigar, Winter exhaled a rolling cloud. “You may be right. I hope we can work something out.” He waved the cigar like a miniature baton. “Very nice.”

  His approval drew a preoccupied nod as Carr said, “I’m afraid there’s not much to work out. We know Trung’s a black marketeer. Still, there’s someone of importance on the Vietnamese side very anxious to see he’s, shall we say, contented?” He looked from one of them to the other, probing for a break. “Exactly where is he, Colonel, and what’s his condition?”

  “Technically, he’s the prisoner of the South Vietnamese, Mr. Carr. Their information puts him in Hong Kong with a large bank account. He should be quite well.”

  The leather-and-chrome chair squeaked disapproval as Carr swung from side to side, tenting his fingers on his rib cage. “If you don’t mind. Colonel, I’d like to ask exactly where you fit in here. You’re the contact I was given by the General. Why? How’s a Records Research Unit get in on the defection of a low-level VC-slash-crook? What are your sources?”

  “I can’t do that, Mr. Carr. Our sources would dry up overnight if I started discussing them. All I can tell you is that by virtue of the joint nature of the Unit and long tenure in-country, I hear a lot. I make it a point to know where the skeletons are.”

  Carr winced dramatically. “An unfortunate metaphor. If Trung’s a skeleton, we don’t have a problem, we have a catastrophe.”

  “My mistake. While we’re asking things, exactly who is so concerned about Trung?”

  “Touché.” Carr cocked his head to the side. “If I knew, which of course I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Without thinking, Taylor laughed. Winter’s quick glare was a warning. Carr was curious.

  “You wanted to say something, Major?”

  “No, sir. I was just thinking how long it’s been since I saw a two-handed game of Blind Man’s Bluff.”

  “It does look like that, doesn’t it?” Carr’s move from taut curiosity to a smile was beautiful to watch, smooth as an acrobat’s progression from stunt to pose. The lips parted and the new expression glossed his features, defying interpretation, unselfconsciously a stock item.

  “The Major has a point, Colonel. We’re sparring. Impasse. However, I’ll take a step your way and tell you frankly I’ve tried to resist the pressure to produce Trung. I failed.”

  The decision to trust Carr showed in Winter’s attitude. He bent forward slightly, a minimally aggressive move subconsciously intended to increase his bargaining weight.

  “Assuming I can prevail on my sources, when would he have to be available?”

  “Guarantee the date and I’ll guarantee you another three days and try for four. Five is out of the question.”

  “That’s not much time, Mr. Carr. There are complications—” Raised eyebrows suggested an infinity of possibilities.

  Carr said, “Call me Pete. I hope you’re not telling me he’s—injured?”

  “I’m sure he’s not. And my friends call me Win.”

  “Win it is. As for our friend, whoever’s responsible for him had better insure he’s not injured. I have a gut feeling he’ll become a cause célèbre if things go too far. I smell a plan, and him a part of it. Ever since Tet, the VC have been withering. The NVA and the politicians back home, that’s what’s left. I happen to know a major VC figure has dropped out of sight and my sources,” he broke and the polished smile worked its transformation quickly and was gone, “report rumors that he sold out his comrades. If that’s so, the opposition’ll need a distraction, a media blitz to popularize some abused freedom fighter. It’d generate enough stink to overwhelm any credit we might accrue from the big-time VC’s defection or elimination.”

  Color rose from Winter’s neck and his eyes narrowed. The silence fell apart at the peremptory ring of a telephone in the outer office. When a light sprang to life on Carr’s phone, he punched at it with a finger that consigned it to another time.

  Winter said, “We’re not talking about a jaywalker. This bastard buys or steals bullets that kill our men.”

  “The people who take his side don’t care about that. How long since you’ve been home, Win?”

  Cautious at this new tack, Winter’s chin tucked back to a defensive posture. He hedged his answer.

  “Quite a while. A few years, now. Why?”

  “You should take a leave, bring yourself up to date.”

  “What’s your point, Pete?”

  Bitterness burst past the modulated speech pattern. “The war’s lasted too long. The opposition is organized, the politicians are terrified, the people are confused. We’re getting out with all possible haste and as little fuss as possible. There will be no martyr named Trung.”

  “He can identify some people involved in his capture. It could be sensitive.”

  They matched stares for a moment. Carr said, “You’re a soldier. You’ve sent men to capture minor pieces of ground knowing damned well it’d cost some of them their lives and in a year’s time no one would remember it happened. That’s where we are with this. Everyone’s going to have to take their chances.”

  “Not everyone. Just the fools.” Winter got to his feet as if his legs troubled him. “I’ll see to the arrangements. But I want something from you. Get the word to Trung’s friend that silence is all that keeps Trung alive. I promise you, if I ever suspect one of my people’s been hurt because we had to turn the sonofabitch free, I’ll watch him die for it. And anyone connected with him. No considerations, no exceptions.”

  “I’ll try. No promises.”

  “I appreciate that. You’re not in a position to keep it if you make it. I understand.”

  Carr tried the smile, and it came up unbalanced. Taylor moved to the door as the civilian extended his hand and was suddenly remembering the events of the previous night, now a thousand years old, and despite the horror of the scenes in his mind, it had an honesty of spirit that made his present surroundings tawdry and demeaning.

  He stepped into the next room and turned to see the two men smiling at each other and they looked to be grinning in rictus, like dogs dead on a roadside, struc
k down by a force they’d never challenged and would never comprehend.

  Chapter 26

  Taylor wheeled to a stop in the parking lot. Allen helped Harker out, the blond man gingerly probing ahead of himself with a cane.

  “Careful,” he warned. “Let me down easy, ‘cause if you jar my jewels I’ll raise raw welts all over you with my trusty walking stick and cry salt tears in the wounds.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” Allen said. “I know how vulnerable you are.”

  “I’m getting better fast. Give me a few days and I’ll be ticking along on two like everybody else.”

  “You’re one lucky man.” Taylor came around to join them. “The doc says no real damage done?”

  Harker’s smile was grim. “Depends on what you call damage. Everything’s going to be functional as ever. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work at karate again. Every time I even think someone’s eyeing the ol’ Golden Target I’m afraid I’ll curl up in a ball and faint.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re justifying your Purple Heart.”

  “Don’t say purple.” Harker wrinkled his face histrionically. “I don’t want to hear purple. Or green. And damn black-and-blue. Colors bring back bad memories.”

  “Odd you should mention purple,” Allen mused. “I was thinking we could have dinner tonight at the Crab Pot. They serve an excellent eggplant, fried in batter. I love eggplant, the bulbous shape wine-dark, taut-skinned. You test them for ripeness by squeezing.” He held out a hand, demonstrating.

  Harker groaned. “You sadistic bastard.” He stopped and groaned again. “Oh, wow! Steps! I didn’t know we had stairs!”

  The other two exchanged looks and each grabbed an elbow, shuffling up the few stairs, Harker floating between them on his rigid arms. The need for slow progress gave Taylor a welcome chance to inspect the building.

  The Cercle Sportif was another legacy of the French, a white building luminous in the shade of towering trees. The interior was elegant and spacious, with the high ceilings of tropical architecture. Everywhere he looked, lovingly polished hardwoods of intricate grain glowed welcome. Subdued lighting made it manorial.