by Don McQuinn
He nodded and felt his face breaking like glass and the tears slid across the fragments.
Suddenly she was exhausted. Her lips parted and the pink tip of her tongue, startlingly vivid against her pallor, licked once and disappeared again. Only as her facial muscles slackened did he realize the will that had maintained her. The sheet moved gently with her breathing and her head lolled toward him, as if she intended to speak again momentarily.
Doctor Hall put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “I can give you the details, if knowing’ll help at all, Major. The simple truth is, we’re helpless.”
Taylor nodded. “I know you did your best. Thank you. I’ll stay here with her.”
Hall shuffled uncomfortably. “Major, we have visiting hours. We’re crowded, and you’ll be in the way. Get a good night’s sleep and come back in the morn—”
“Forget it.” Taylor adjusted a sheet that didn’t need it. “You’ve practically told me there won’t be a tomorrow. I’ll stay here.”
“It’s out of the question.”
Winter’s voice cut across the argument. “We’re all staying, Doctor.” Taylor turned to see Harker approaching with three chairs. Wordlessly, he placed one for Taylor near Ly’s head and, at Winter’s gesture, sat the other two in position at the foot. The doctor sputtered confusion. Winter turned eyes on him that matched his own for ancient acceptance.
“Understand, Doctor,” he said quietly, “we don’t want trouble, but the young woman is different, you see, as is the Major. The world should make exception for the different. And if you think the Captain and I aren’t different, try to interfere with us.”
In the silence, Hall’s face finally worked itself around to grudging agreement. At the last, he nodded, more in understanding than defeat. “She must be very special to you all. If you need anything, let us know.” He waved loosely.
Winter turned to face the bed again, bolt upright in his chair, stone featured, arms folded across the broad chest. Harker sat more relaxed, the blond head almost luminous in the increasingly dim room. Night was blanketing the city.
An hour passed. Somewhere an infant cried, the complaint poignant against the steady murmur of coughs and groans and bed-noises that welled through the corridors and wards. Ly stirred and woke, her eyes wide in fright until they found Taylor beside her. Her lips moved in a smile and she lapsed back into unconsciousness.
It was shortly after the baby quieted that she inhaled a particularly deep breath and held it for a moment and expelled it as a soft sigh. Then she was completely still.
“Ly?” He lifted her hand from the bed and leaned over her. At the foot of the bed, Harker was up and running.
Taylor put her hand down to cradle her head on his palm and stroke her hair, continuing to repeat her name in cadence, his voice full of childlike loss.
The doctor arrived with a nurse and Taylor allowed himself to be moved out of the way, never taking his eyes from the figure on the bed. Another nurse hurried in, followed by the steady Sergeant who seemed to be present when needed.
Taylor watched stolidly while the white-clad figures bobbed and shifted around the bed, only his eyes alive. Harker and Winter braced themselves on his flanks, carved temple guards, rock-strong and helpless.
When the doctor turned, one of the nurses was drawing the sheet over Ly’s face. Carefully, he worked himself between Taylor and the bed, waiting for Taylor to focus on him. He said, “I’m sorry.”
Looking into the man’s sincerity, Taylor managed to say, “Thank you.” Then he moved to the side for one last moment alone with her and he felt his life distilled to the few hours they had shared. He wanted to speak to her but his throat constricted and he was barely able to pivot and make his way out.
Winter and Harker fell in behind him.
Chapter 51
“He’s driving me out of my mind.”
Winter shot forward to the edge of his desk chair and continued to watch the door where Taylor had just exited. Harker said nothing. Instead of calming Winter, the additional silence aggravated him further. “He didn’t even thank me when I told him he’s going home early. I don’t think he’s said ten words since she died. I wish he’d do something. I could understand that, handle it. But he just keeps moving around with that iron mask look. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was perfectly normal. It’s horrible.”
A nervous gesture earned Harker a hard glare. “You disagree?” Winter challenged.
“No, sir.” Harker corrected him quickly, anxious to avoid another of the sudden temper flare-ups Winter himself had been exhibiting recently. “I’m worried about you, is all. It’s been rough around here watching you, too. I told you we could find Binh. I thought you’d be after him like a flash, and you haven’t made a move.”
“Half right,” Winter said. “I passed your information to Loc. He’s got people checking the place. You’ve come up with something really important. Look here.”
He was on his feet, animation breaking through the sullenness. Rummaging in his desk, he drew out a map, cleared a place for it and spread it flat. From the same drawer he brought out a tube of clear acetate that unrolled to a sheet the same size as the map. It was marked with red dots. Placed on the map, the dots showed as a spattering of pips surrounding Phu Thuan. Harker moved closer. Spidery numbers printed under each dot indicated dates and times.
“Terrorist action,” Winter explained, jabbing a thick finger at one dot after another. “Road mined, grenade in the market, ambushed police patrol. You name it, this area’s seen it all. But not Phu Thuan. Never. Make you wonder?”
“They could be too tough.” Harker remembered Cao’s punji-fanged village and the air of determination about the place.
“Could be,” Winter said, “but as far back as Loc’s people can find records, there’s been nothing. It’s not like Charlie to let one go by forfeit. And there’s another thing.”
Diving into the drawer again, Winter swept aside the first piece of acetate and spread out a second. This one featured two arrows drawn in the red grease-pencil reserved for enemy identification. The heads of the arrows rested on the edge of the map, the shaft of each badly bowed to form a crimson parentheses bracketing Phu Thuan.
“This is where it gets fascinating.” Winter bent over the desk and Harker delighted in the increasing animation.
“The Tet offensive in this area. Two columns of VC.” His hands described swaths across the contour lines and he recited the names of villages and hamlets in their shadow. “All those places, smashed. Burned. Government personnel hunted down and killed. But not Phu Thuan. An island of tranquility, Phu Thuan.” He slapped the hands on the map. “And when the same columns were retreating, escaping the best they could? ARVN forces chasing them had a heavy night battle just here, a few kilometers from the town, when the VC turned and counterattacked. And guess what? The next morning they find dead VC, a few terminally wounded and a fanatic rear guard. The rest? Disappeared.”
“How many?”
Winter made a face. “Probably no more than fifty, maybe a hundred. Fifty good guerrillas could lose themselves in a convent. But what about the wounded? How do you run for cover and disappear with your wounded?”
“You think they ran for Phu Thuan?”
The hands slapped the map again. “I’m sure of it. If we could just be sure. Goddam, think of it! All this time and we may have the bastard!”
“Has Loc been able to tell you anything?”
“Not yet. Maybe that’s why I’m letting this thing with Taylor and Ly get to me so much. I don’t know.” He spun away from the desk and walked stiff-legged to the COSVN chart on the wall. “I don’t understand what’s happening anymore, if I ever did.”
He turned quickly again, the earlier animation now more like erratic fits and starts. “Do you ever hear from Allen anymore?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“And Kimble. You realize we don’t know what happened to that poor bastard when he got home? He
spent a year with us and left with his life a fucking mess and we never troubled to find out if he’s all right and he didn’t give enough of a damn about us to let us know.”
Harker said, “Hey, Colonel, he was always weird. And Hal’s trying to get his act together, that’s all.”
Winter ignored Harker’s defense and turned back to his chart. “And Ordway, that Marine Corporal. The only person he wrote back to was Miller, and that was their own crusade. I wonder if they’ll ever bother to see each other again. And Miller. Never a word from him.”
“So they don’t write letters. Big deal.”
“It is. When one of us leaves here, it’s like he never existed. The bond isn’t taking. Men are brothers here and as soon as they get away, they erase everything from their minds.”
“OK, Colonel, what’s your point?”
Winter threw him a grim smile. “I’m damned if I know. But it bugs me. I see every man who’s served in Vietnam standing in a row, like pigeons on a wire, each one exactly far enough from the person next to him to avoid being pecked. It’s a social structure made of very lonely individuals.”
“You worry too much. This war and the way things are back in the world won’t last forever.”
“I hope not.” He moved back to his desk, seemingly intent on the map once more, but instead, he said, “You know, that’s the trouble. Too much idle bullshit and no solid decisions. We’re so introspective and tentative.”
“Now, there’s something that’ll change, for sure. When our people realize how much mealy-mouthed crap—”
Winter gestured it away. “Too much talk, again. Of all the people in the problem, we’re the last ones to make more noise. We do the job.” Harker pitched forward, poised like a boxer, chin tucked back so he peered at Winter from under his brows. The young face drew taut but still retained its contoured appearance, like the deflective curvatures of a tank turret. Unaware, Winter continued to study the map.
As Harker relaxed he found it possible to smile when Winter placed the overlays together on the map, first moving a finger from one accusing red dot to another, then tracing the course of the red arrows across the geography.
Harker thought how he looked like a latter-day necromancer weaving his spell over enemies. He wondered if the Round Table knights had ever stood around watching Merlin invoke against dragons. The fancy caught his imagination and he let it run, wishing he had only dragons to contend with, instead of a world that spawned opposition as freely as it created breezes.
The faint knock on the door interrupted them. Before Winter could speak, it swung open to admit Loc, his face split by an unheard of grin. He recognized the map and acetate overlays immediately.
“Very convenient. I have information.” His head snapped in a brisk series of nods. “In fact, I have good news.”
Moving to the map, he stood beside Winter’s looming bulk.
He said, “Phu Thuan’s destruction will be a major victory.” Color rose in his cheeks forming dark oblongs that flowed along the bones. “For years it has been so peaceful we have merely acknowledged its presence. And Phu Thuan is entirely a lie.”
Winter looked lost. “A lie?”
Loc reached to lay a deliberate fingertip on the village and Harker had a sense of vengeance lowering. “The ground under Phu Thuan is a maze of tunnels. There are barracks, classrooms, a hospital, and a small munitions factory. It was a staging facility for the Tet offensive. Now it is almost deserted. There is a maintenance force, mostly convalescents in the hospital facility.”
Winter pursed his lips and nodded, the composed attitude contradicted by a throbbing vein at his temple. “Binh?” The single syllable brought the tension to a vibrant pitch.
“I think so, Anh Hai. I think we have found him.”
Winter exhaled and Harker realized from the following rapid inhalation he’d been holding his breath. Only then did he notice the stiffness in his own elbows and move them to work out the pain caused by standing with his fists clenched at his sides.
“How soon can we move?” Winter asked.
Loc smiled again. “Phu Thuan is in the sector of an old friend. I have arranged for a reinforced company. The General has promised helicopters and all other necessary support. We will supply only our personnel and tactical requirements at the pre-attack briefing. I can guarantee surprise when we touch down.”
“How soon?”
“The soonest? Tomorrow afternoon, if you like, although the next morning would be better. I have had my men draw up the operation plan. Would you care to see what we have?”
Winter led the way to the door, where he turned to Harker. “I want nothing of this getting to Taylor. Leave him to his problems. We don’t need him on this and I’m not sure he could handle anything just yet. You have any questions?”
“One, Colonel. It’s not really important.” He looked to Loc. “Sir, I just got the word to you and Colonel Winter about Binh a few days ago. How’d you learn all this so quickly?”
Loc’s smile turned sly. “As soon as we had your information we arranged for the village chief to be brought here to accept an award for the contributions of Phu Thuan to the government. Colonel Tho and Sergeant Chi made the presentation. The chief will remain our guest until we have inspected his village.”
“I see.” He glanced at Winter and saluted. Winter moved his hand in acknowledgement and Loc’s office door snicked shut behind them.
* * *
Taylor remained on his bunk without moving when Harker’s footsteps halted at his open door. He felt no need to speak to anyone. He felt very little of anything. There was a peculiar heaviness in his throat, as if something coarse had wedged there, but no urge to tears.
Was he inured to normal emotions?
It was a frightening thought. He observed it, picturing it blinking on and off in the dark, a red neon sign.
Is Charles Taylor capable of human emotion?
He listened to Harker’s receding footsteps, glad to be alone, embarrassed by the self-pity threatening to crush him. He rose from the bunk and stripped for a shower.
The water was warm, warmer than he remembered it from the last time, but it always was. Almost a year in-country and he still couldn’t adjust to the idea of hot water on demand. It simply didn’t seem right. Nothing did. Everyone was right and everyone was wrong.
He stared at the shower head, erasing thoughts as they came, like one hand writing on a blackboard and the other in pursuit with the eraser. The spray element nestled in its metal holder, a machined multi-eyed cobra’s head at the end of flexible tubing. It reflected his face in distortion, huge eyes and nose, the mouth a darker smudge further grotesqued by a drop of water that magnified one corner out of all proportion. It distracted him for the time it took to organize his mind and he planned his words for Ly’s mother as he rinsed off and toweled. At his closet he debated civilian clothes or uniform, finally selecting the neutrality of the faded utilities. The bright hues of his civilian shirts offended his eyes.
It never occurred to him to ask for permission to leave the villa. The jeep was clearing the gate when he realized he’d failed to do so. He shrugged the problem aside, uncaring, driving with careless skill. Moving in the relatively light mid-morning traffic was like being adrift on a river and he flowed as the current required. It was a feeling that was further reinforced when he crossed the bridge over the thick pollution of the stream called Rach Thi Nghe. He remembered crossing it when he’d first arrived and passed this way going to Ly’s class. The market that had always seemed lively then was hectic now, a mass of noise and confusion. On the other side of the bridge was the familiar alley leading to the Chantareansay Pagoda. Four monks in saffron chanted at the entrance. The words were smothered by machine noise and he could only salvage the sense of supplication in their manner.
Relief mingled with guilt swept through the impression as he thought how he’d be spared having to participate in one of the Vietnamese funerals that frequently wound through
the Saigon streets with the ornately carved, gilded, and painted funeral carts that always made him think of circus wagons. It was a shameful reaction and he wished it would go away. With the cars and the musicians and the banners in their violent colors, it was an aspect of Vietnamese culture he’d never adjusted to. The thought that Ly’s funeral wouldn’t be like that filled him with uncomfortable gratitude. Her people were Catholic. He could handle that. It would tear out his guts but he’d get through it.
He parked in front of the gate and knocked. The guard opened his spyhole and a sad smile of recognition flitted across his face, replaced instantly by apprehension.
“I can not admit you, Thieu Ta,” he said, swallowing hard. “They said you could not come in.”
Taylor tried to comprehend the words. “I know they mourn. I only want to learn of the—the funeral arrangements. And to tell them of my sorrow.”
“They will not see you.” The guard shut the small door.
For a moment Taylor’s mind rejected what his eyes saw. His stomach tightened and he feared he would be sick. Then the anger swelled out of control. He corrected his distance and kicked the door. It boomed massively, profundo laughter. He kicked it again, harder, enjoying the shock of the blow traveling from the heel of his boot to the base of his neck. Timing the blows, he set up a steady rhythm.
When it swung open he was in mid-kick and stumbled forward, catching himself on the frame, hanging over the porcelain features of Ba Lien. He straightened with as much dignity as possible.
“I apologize for my behavior. There was a mistake. The guard said I was not to be admitted. The tragedy—then this—I am sorry.” He gestured at the gate, pleading for her understanding.
She said, “We are having a very private service for my daughter, Thieu Ta. Only the immediate family and close friends. We are asking no Americans. I am sure you will understand.”