Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  She continued to watch the set. “Nothing. But a younger man would possibly have another reason to go to bed so early. It was only a thought.”

  When he made no answer she looked to see his face and found him advancing on her. She squealed and leaped from the chair, backing away, deliciously frightened as he maneuvered her into a corner.

  “We agreed, no tickling!” Her voice rose as he reached for her. “Don’t! I will scream, Charles!” The last word yipped as his hand closed on her side. When he eased the pressure, she fell against him, panting laughter. He folded his arms around her.

  "Animal,” she mumbled and he tightened his arms, forcing breath out of her in a grunt. She giggled and turned her face up, disengaging a hand to trace his smile.

  “You make me happy, like a child,” she said. “I love you.”

  “And I love you.” He caressed her back, his hand finally coming to rest on her neck, blanketed by the mass of shining hair. She tilted back against the hand and he kissed her, lingering until her mouth opened and their tongues flicked at each other with silent invitations. She broke away, walking to the television to turn it off. He followed.

  “Good for you,” he said. “One form of entertainment at a time.”

  She laughed easily and leaned back against him. He moved his hands across her blouse to cup the outthrust breasts and she arched her back, sighing. After a moment she took one of his hands in hers and lifted it to nibble on his fingertips.

  Thousands of words scintillated through his mind, tender, clever, passionate, solemn. He discarded them all, scooping her up in both arms and walking into the bedroom.

  Later she lay in the dark and studied his body in the pale light from the window. He was asleep on his back, head lolled to the side, facing her. The angle of the light brought his cheekbones into relief under the darker slash of the shadowed eye sockets. His chest rose and fell in steady tempo, each exhalation a quiet touch on her shoulder. Moving very carefully, she trailed the tips of her fingers across her stomach, the growing child a noticeable bulge now. She moved the hands to a point above her groin and drew them upwards over her body, feeling her face warm as her nipples hardened. She replaced one hand at her side and let the other settle, softly as ash, to his shoulder. She exulted at the pleasure they had known, the delicious sated listlessness that calmed one half of her mind while the other half writhed with lingering eroticism. An alien image wavered into her mind’s eye and she couldn’t dislodge it. Resignedly, she tried to determine what it was and it dodged. Suddenly it was clear and she had to stifle a cry as she recognized her husband.

  He had been a good man. He had taught her the uses of her body which she admitted shamefully she had never appreciated as fully with him as she did with Charles.

  She tossed her head to the side, looking at the mirror on the dresser that reflected the dark room in a dream’s haze. Was she so wanton, then, to find greater pleasure with her second man than her first? Would she be tempted to encourage a third? A fourth? More? Could there be another man?

  As though resenting the question, he exhaled loudly and drew a foot parallel to his other leg, the knee bending until the leg stood poised in an inverted vee. The hairs on the thigh glinted dully and she smiled to herself as she contemplated the disparity between his leg and her own slim one so motionless beside it.

  What would it be like to live in a foreign land, waking to find that bulk next to her every day? Her mind drifted to other aspects of his body and she felt her face grow warm again even as the smile spread. Softly, she moved her hand from his shoulder and stroked the hairs on the thigh, so gently they seemed to wave under her touch as water plants bend and sway with the current. The leg grew taut with a spasmodic jerk that startled her, the calf muscle bunching furiously. At the same instant a rumbling explosion tumbled through the night from a distance and the leg trembled, relaxed, and began to unfold back onto the bed. The suddenness of the combination frightened her. She clutched at the descending knee.

  He was awake, her arm vised in his hand.

  “Ly? What’s wrong?” He sat up, searching.

  “Nothing, Charles. Something woke me. Charles, my arm.”

  He relaxed his grip, stroking the area. “I’m sorry. I was out cold.” He lay back down, facing her. “What woke you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, everything is fine.” It stuck to her tongue. “Fine,” she repeated, forcing life into the word. “There was an explosion, I think. Far away.”

  “Go back to sleep,” he said, pillowing her head on his arm. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Without any idea why, she found herself rolled over against him, tears burning. Then she heard the explosion in her memory and saw the taut flesh go suddenly flaccid and the tears burst free in the wake of a racking shiver.

  “What’s wrong, Ly? Don’t cry!” He tried to understand what was happening. She burrowed tighter against him, continuing to sob quietly. He cradled her and, confused, could only be solicitous. “It’s all right, honey, we’re all right. Sleep, baby, sleep.”

  The pulsing sobs dwindled, stopped. Tears continued to drain down across his bicep, hot as blood.

  He settled on the pillow to watch for first light.

  One more sunrise. Waiting for God to give me just that one more sunrise. Does He give them as a reward or is each one a new joke? What if dying’s the reward and living’s a sentence? That’s stupid—if it was true, why’d everyone get so damned grim about the trip? I’ve punched enough tickets, and not a one thanked me.

  Sights and sounds foamed behind his eyes and he blinked them away.

  Animal. I wonder if she can guess? Stalking. Challenged. Exhilarated. Usually terrified, sometimes assured to the point of contemptuousness. Always wondering if the next one was smarter, quicker, better prepared. Luckier.

  The night, cruel as the sea.

  He watched out the window and waited.

  * * *

  The knock on the door brought him out of bed in a rolling motion, his hand wrapped around the butt of the pistol waiting on the night stand. Trotting silently into the living room, he crouched at an angle away from the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sergeant Chi, Thieu Ta. The Colonels—they say you come.” The voice was low, thick with intensity.

  Taylor swung the door open, stepping quickly to the side. Chi advanced slowly, watching the pistol with unwavering attentiveness until it sagged.

  “It is important. We go villa quick.”

  Gesturing at a chair with the gun, Taylor hurried to dress. Ly was sitting upright, the tent of the sheet emphasizing her tousled hair, a greater blackness against the dark. The whites of her eyes broadcast fear.

  “What is wrong, Charles?”

  He was throwing clothes on, the sport shirt and slacks incongruous in the face of the understated urgency in Chi’s voice.

  “I have to report in. Something’s come up.”

  “It is an attack?”

  He kissed her forehead, holstering the gun. “We’d have heard noise by now. Go back to sleep. It’s probably a hassle for a list of names. Admin junk.”

  She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “Be careful.”

  He laughed. “I’ll try not to fall on my pencil. Now go back to sleep.” He hated the lie, knowing it was for both of them and not what she deserved. Locking the door with careful deliberation, he trotted after Chi, waiting until they were underway before asking, “What is wrong?”

  Chi chose not to look at him. “Colonel tell only come quick. No more.”

  “Shit! It’s two in the morning!”

  Chi shifted into Vietnamese. “It is an order.”

  “There is trouble?”

  A quick, sidelong glance from the blank eyes and Chi swerved around a corner. His tongue slid out, glistening in the rush of a streetlight, and traced a path across the upper lip.

  “There is trouble, Thieu Ta. I say no more.”

  Taylor growled and slumped. They flew down
the deserted streets with only a rare gleam from behind a window to remind them that people still lived in the buildings. The drumming howl of the tires echoed back from imperturbable walls. The pitch rose eerily on the straightaways, crooned down scale at the corners, only to break into a scream slewing around each one. Taylor tried to ignore the sound to review what could cause so much excitement. There were so many possibilities—a tip on a VC operation in the city, a defector wanting to talk, another prisoner to be interrogated.

  He inspected Chi and dropped the notion of learning anything from that frowning concentration. They swept to a groaning halt at the compound gate, Chi barking at the guards to hurry.

  The tension was infectious. At the villa, Taylor leaped up the steps and ran to Winter’s office. The door was open, light cascading in a bright stain across the hall and up the opposite wall. Taylor went in without knocking.

  Winter sat at his desk, Loc in a chair to his right. Harker and Tho shared the sofa. Interrupted argument hung in the air, distorting already sleep-riddled features.

  “Sergeant Chi made good time.” The approval in Winter’s voice labored under self-conscious banality.

  “What’s coming down?” Taylor asked.

  Winter indicated a chair. “I was in a session with a general officer, and when I got to my quarters, Harker was waiting for me. He had a meet with Tuyet today. She overheard Trung telling a third party we have, I quote, the woman and her child, and he’s going to the media with the information.”

  Taylor moved in between Harker and Tho. “He’s killing her. How’d he find out?”

  “From the one that got away—Han, Barline’s driver—in all probability. Who knows?” He shrugged as if the gesture cost him days from his life.

  Taylor rose again and moved to look at the papers on Winter’s desk. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking? You want to make sure we don’t get blown and Binh’s wife doesn’t get burned?”

  Winter looked away.

  Taylor grimaced and moved to the other side of the desk, his hands and eyes moving across the clutter of data. “Nice,” he said. “Neighborhood sketch map for getting in and out? Floor plan?” He feigned surprise. “What, no time schedule?”

  Loc said, “It must be done quickly, while it is still dark. People will be getting up to go to work very soon. If we cannot do it in an hour or less the risk becomes too great.”

  A deep breath turned to a resigned sigh in Taylor’s chest. It escaped in a gust and he bent to study the plans more closely. Loc stepped behind him, the prim presence hovering. Tho joined him on the other side, busily sucking a tooth.

  After a few minutes, Taylor straightened. Winter looked expectant. “Let’s say I walk from this corner, here, to the side street.” Taylor traced the route on the map. “I go in, come out. and continue up the side street and I’m met on the other main street. I’ll wear utilities. If I get real lucky, anyone who sees me’ll think I’m an ARVN on his way to the base. I want to be picked up by someone on a Honda. No one looks twice at two uniforms on a Honda and we have the darkness going for us.”

  “Corporal Minh,” Loc said and gestured at Tho. “Get him. Tell him he will take Thieu Ta Taylor and return with him on his machine. Hurry!”

  Tho left at a near run.

  Marking the floor plan with a pen, Taylor went on. “The door—a bolt or chain? Is it just a lock?”

  Loc shuffled through the papers, pointed at one. “Only a door lock.”

  “Well, Christ on a crutch.” The harshness ripped through the room. “We may get away with this thing after all. At least we don’t have to blast our way in or plant a plastic charge on the bedroom wall.”

  Winter winced but remained silent.

  Taylor said, “What about the lock?”

  Loc continued to read. “It’s American. Yale.”

  He handed the paper to Taylor who studied it after a sarcastic comment about American locks to protect honest VC from burglars. Replacing the information on the desk with the rest, he asked, “Who collected this information?”

  Loc said, “Duc. We thought it might be important one day.”

  There was a hint of something in Loc’s face as he spoke and Taylor froze it in his mind to examine it, knowing it was futile, as it always was. There was no doubt Loc was thinking of several things, but what they might be, no man would guess.

  To Winter, Taylor said, “I want a K-54 and a full clip. They’re both in an ammo can above the desk in the shop.”

  Winter tossed keys to Harker. “The one with the blue plastic square on it.”

  Harker was running as he caught them.

  “You intend to leave the pistol?” Winter asked.

  “No, sir. Charlie wouldn’t do that. The brass will identify the piece and that’s all we need. As long as I don’t have to use it to get out of that fucking alley, everyone’ll connect it with the VC.”

  “To get out of the alley?” Loc repeated.

  Taylor faced him. “No one’s going to identify me. No one’s going to arrest me.”

  “Quite so.” Loc nodded thoughtfully.

  “If that’s it, then, I’ll go get my utilities on,” Taylor said.

  Winter stood up. “I’ll go with you. Loc, will you think this through again with Tho when he returns, please? See if there’s another way or any flaws we can eliminate?”

  Taylor smiled wryly on his way out.

  Any flaws we can eliminate. That was well told. He thought he’d never seen anything so ragged, so crude. It wasn’t so much a plan as a throw of the dice.

  A wallet-sized kit in his locker held his lock tools. He examined them carefully, then pulled a clean uniform off the hanger, thankful the Corps didn’t require the sewed-on rank insignia the Army used. Darkness would cover the Marine emblem stenciled on his left breast pocket. At least, he amended, he hoped it would, for the sake of anyone who might see it.

  The cover. He debated borrowing one from the Army people. “Fuck it,” he said aloud, sitting down to pull off his shoes.

  Winter broke his own silence. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning this is some dumb shit, coach.”

  Winter looked unhappy. “We’ll give you backup. Any breakdown, if there’s any trouble—”

  “Hold it, hold it!” Taylor waved clumsily while he continued to undress. “Don’t stroke me. If it blows up, I’m in the shit and we both know it. If Trung talks, we’ve all had it, and the woman’s a goner. If I get caught, all I can do is hope I can ditch my tools and claim Trung and I were arguing about the money I lost to him. There was a struggle for the gun. You’ve probably heard a story like it before. Just don’t give me any crap about helping me in any court-martial. It won’t make me a bit happier because you couldn’t make one fucking word stick.”

  “You’re really one cold-blooded bastard,” Winter said. He bridled in the chair, huffing like a rodeo bull waiting for the chute to open.

  Taylor pulled on a boot. “Sure. You’re stroking me again. I’m scared out of my mind. You know goddam well how scared I am.” He finished blousing the trousers and rolled his shoulders to settle the shoulder holster in place under the jacket.

  A motorcycle snarled to a stop in the parking area and they hurried to Winter’s office.

  Loc greeted their return, sparing Tho and Minh the slightest nod of acknowledgement as they entered behind them. “A question has come up. What if Trung has a woman with him?”

  Winter blanched. Taylor saw it out of the corner of his eye and said, “Hope it’s someone you don’t know or don’t like, Colonel.”

  Loc said, “If you think it will be necessary, of course.”

  Harker trotted in and handed the automatic to Taylor, who carefully disassembled the piece and checked each part as he put it back together. Then he inserted the magazine and jacked it clean of rounds. Satisfied, he took the ejected bullets back from Harker and reloaded them, examining each one. Then he worked a round into the chamber and lowered the hammer.

>   For a moment he was alone and the expressions around him reflected their knowledge of his withdrawal. He held the weapon loosely, studying it, the rugged configuration very similar to the .45 and no prettier. Even the raised black star on the black handgrip was dull. The word funereal came to his mind. He slipped the gun into the shoulder holster as he turned.

  “You know what you are to do?” he asked Minh.

  Minh’s eyes never left Taylor’s armpit as he nodded understanding.

  Taylor started for the door, hoping his movements didn’t look as uncoordinated as they felt.

  “Tay!” Winter called. He turned and they each took a hesitant step toward him and stopped. Winter said, “Good luck. And bail out if you think it’s best.”

  The rest nodded, including Tho, who was clearly responding to a cue.

  Taylor said, “Don’t make me think about it or I’ll stay right here.” He tried a smile that felt like a thing painted on, and left.

  Minh cruised easily through the still-quiet streets. Taylor checked his watch. It was almost 0400. In a little while the cement would be hidden under masses of traffic. Already there were lights in windows that would have been dark only an hour ago. He wanted to clutch at the night, hold it around him until he was done with it, then break clear into sunshine.

  The coasting stop terminated introspection. He stepped off the machine and moved directly against the shadowed wall where he remained stationary, looking and listening long after Minh had disappeared around the corner. When he felt it was time, he headed toward the deeper black that was the alley-like side street where Trung’s apartment was located. He moved as quickly as possible to the correct door and squatted by the keyhole and suddenly the smell of rancid cooking oil and a barrage of distant wet coughing descended on his senses simultaneously, making his stomach buck. The moment passed. He ran his fingers over the lock face and selected tools from the small leather case. Gently, waiting for resistance before applying gradual pressure, he raked the lock, untroubled by the whispered scrape of metal on metal.

  The bolt slid back with a slightly louder rustle and the knob turned silently. The door swung open a few inches and he paused to listen. The throaty sound of deep breathing just short of snoring came from off to his left, where the bedroom was supposed to be.