“As an NVA officer, Xang kept a low-profile drug trade, but by the end of the war he’d hooked up with American deserters who were left behind. Within a few years he established himself as a powerful drug warlord.”
Stevens seemed lost in another world for a moment. Bowie forgot about getting dressed and stood transfixed by the conversation.
“The CIA was in charge of military Special Operations back then,” Stevens continued. “With the war winding down and the conventional military headed home, they were recruiting right from the ranks of Navy SEALs. I had nothing to go home to. As far as I was concerned Vietnam was my home.”
Bowie realized he wasn’t getting the whole story. “This thing between you and Xang, it’s not just about drugs, is it?”
“No,” Stevens admitted. “It’s personal.”
Fall 1972
Somewhere in Laos
“SEE WHAT YOU CAN GET out of him. He just looks at me and pisses his pants.”
The scarred face of his commanding officer was enough to scare anyone. It was probably a good thing the VC didn’t know Tad Prince the way Skully did.
SEALs served a real purpose here. Only sixty strong and they were able to keep forty thousand VC busy and unable to fight in the war.
“Sure.” Skully pushed away from the wooden support. The Seabees had just built the interrogation center for them deep in the jungle.
The wood smelled new, reminding him of a time he’d gone camping with his family in the redwood forests of California. They’d split logs for fire and toasted marshmallows.
His dad told the best ghost stories. Sometimes war stories set in the South Pacific Islands of World War Two. All his buddies were heroes. All “Japs” hated. He even hated the “Commie Chinks and Ruskies” fighting on the same side. His racist SOB of a father had opinions about Blacks and Jews, as well, but Skully still loved him enough to forgive his ignorance.
Even though the old man was wrong.
Hell, his father had strong opinions about everything. This war. The fact that Skully’s own cousin had gone off to law school instead of Vietnam.
He sure as hell would have opinions about Lan. He considered the Vietnamese people “gooks,” the racist term that had been carried over from the Korean War.
His father didn’t see this war, this country, this people the way he did. With compassion. And he knew that’s why Tad Prince had picked him to interrogate their young prisoner.
Mitch Dann was better-looking. Hacker, softer spoken. Doc, younger. H.T., big and intimating. Rodriges, short fused. Ketchum, just plain crazy. That left him.
Skully opened the door and had to hold his breath.
He leaned against the door frame and studied his quarry. God, how old was this kid? Fourteen, fifteen? The VC weren’t picky. They recruited them younger and younger these days. And to boys who’d known nothing but war Skully supposed it just became a natural way of life.
With slow, deliberate movements, he tapped a tightly packed box of Winstons until one cigarette nosed its way out. By the time he lit it the kid was shaking, tears falling from his red-rimmed eyes.
Skully took a long drag from the cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling and stepped into the room. He crossed to the kid and struck the filter between the boy’s trembling lips. If he was man enough to fight, he was man enough to smoke. One or the other would probably kill him.
Damn.
Next Skully untied the kid’s hands. By the time the kid finished his first cigarette. Skully knew his name, Bay. His age, fourteen. That the VC had “recruited” or killed all the eligible men in his village when they’d raided it a week ago.
The only men left were the very young and the very old.
“They came in tanks.”
“You’re lying.” The VC didn’t have any. Hell, the whole NVA didn’t have any.
“Yes, tanks,” the kid insisted.
Something about the earnestness with which the boy spoke and the pleading in his eyes made Skully believe him. This was information they could use. He sat down across from the boy. “Which province?”
“Quang Tri.”
Skully’s blood ran cold, then hot again. “Your family name!” he demanded, all his patience gone as the instinct that had kept him alive screamed.
“Nguyen. Bay Nguyen.”
Nguyen, common enough. Like Smith or Jones in the States. Ho Chi Minh himself was Nguyen That Thanh.
But Lan’s last name was Nguyen. Hell, she was related to half the villages in and around Quang Tri. But he also knew she had two older brothers, and one younger.
“Your sister’s name?” He couldn’t keep the edge of impatience from his voice.
“No sister,” Bay denied.
“You have a sister. I want her name!” Skully stood, knocking over his chair with a deliberate bang.
The boy jumped. “Lan.” The word escaped on a whisper and he hung his head in shame.
Skully righted his chair and rammed his ivory-handled knife into the table. “Tell me everything,” he demanded.
The boy shook his head even as he started to spill his guts. And Skully didn’t like what he heard. If things were that bad, why hadn’t she used the money he’d given her to get to Da Nang?
The fighting in Quang Tri had been sporadic throughout the war. Skully had reasoned Lan would be as safe south of the DMZ as anywhere in this hell-hole. She knew how to survive. But maybe he’d been wrong.
She was, after all, only a girl.
“Is she all right?”
Bay didn’t know.
Skully couldn’t be content with that.
CHAPTER FOUR
1300 Friday
THE PAPER TIGER
Honolulu, Hawaii
AFTER CHANGING BACK into his uniform, Bowie had headed to the Moanalua Shopping Center, where he stopped for a long-overdue hair cut.
He had mixed feelings about shipping out to Midway. On the one hand there were his men to consider. On the other there was Professor Tam Nguyen. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt about his knife. She’d probably wanted to tell him in person and that’s what tonight was all about.
He’d flown enough MAC flights through Hickam Field, sworn out enough declarations for personal exemptions upon returning to the country and knew enough about U.S. Customs that getting it back shouldn’t be a problem. All he had to do was flash his antique-weapons permit, fill out some paperwork and pick it up. Maybe pay a fine.
Not that he would complain about a little legwork. Because of George Washington’s Tariff Act of 1789, customs revenues had built the United States Naval Academy where he’d graduated with a degree in engineering. And there was the fact that he should have saved himself the trouble by taking the time to show the permit to the warden of Midway Islands in the first place.
Leaving the barber shop with a “high and tight,” he adjusted his garrison cap, then walked the few blocks to the Paper Tiger.
He’d left his pro shop purchases in his locker for his tee time tomorrow. But he still needed other necessities. The shopping center would have provided the perfect opportunity, except he didn’t have the luxury of time.
He had the feeling the uniform would scare her off, though she’d see him in one soon enough. If she didn’t like it, he’d be willing to take it off for the night.
Inside the dimly lit bar, Bowie removed his cap and tucked it into his belt. “Hey, Cadeo,” he said as he approached the bartender. “I don’t suppose—”
Before he could even get the words out the man hit the sale button on the old-fashioned cash register. “Figured you’d be back.” The drawer popped open, and Cadeo dug out Bowie’s credit card and a receipt for him to sign.
“Four hundred dollars?”
“You’re the guy who ran up the tab, not me.”
Bowie checked and double-checked, but everything seemed to be in order. Eight sailors in a strip club could sure run up a bill. And if the tips to some of the strippers seemed a little excessive, well, he sup
posed they deserved it.
Bowie signed the credit slip and pocketed the card.
“Can I set you up with a cold one?” Cadeo asked.
There was entertainment up on stage and a modest midafternoon, mostly military crowd to go along with the more sedate beat. He thought about one for the road, but had that meeting in an hour. “Make it a club soda.”
“You sure?” One of the dancers slipped up beside him. He assumed she was off duty because she had her clothes on, a skimpy number with the shoulders and back cut out. “Just one beer, Lieutenant Prince?”
“Ginger, isn’t it?” he asked the redhead. Of course he could tell she wasn’t a real redhead. And obviously Ginger Snap wasn’t her real name. In fact, there wasn’t much about her that was real.
Except she was a real nice gal just trying to pay her way through college. Or so she’d said the last time they’d spoken.
“You remembered,” she cooed.
“How could I forget?”
“You didn’t seem all that interested the other night.” She tried to run one manicured hand up his thigh, but he stopped her.
“You like to shop?” he asked.
“What girl doesn’t?”
“Think you could do me a favor?”
“As long as it’s before eight,” she answered, cozying up to him. “That’s my first show for the night.”
“That’ll work. I’ll meet you back here at 1800 hours, six,” he translated when he noticed the blank look on her face. But Ginger continued to stare past him with that same expression.
Bowie turned on his bar stool, expecting to find some rival stripper. Instead, Professor Tam Nguyen stood at the opposite end of the bar arguing in Vietnamese with Cadeo. She didn’t look like the gun-toting game warden he remembered.
Wearing a pantsuit that appeared to be Miss Saigon on Wall Street, she looked both sexy and in charge. But what was she doing here?
She wore her hair up, and sophisticated tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. The glasses only added to her mystique, because he knew the beauty hidden behind them.
“Get out!” Cadeo shouted at her. “I told you never to come back here. You’re nothing but trouble.”
“I just want to use your pay phone, Cadeo.” Ignoring the bartender, Tam headed in Bowie’s direction.
Cadeo muttered after her. Bowie wondered about the bartender’s objections. And why Tam felt it necessary to use this pay phone.
“I have to go,” Ginger muttered before heading toward the back of the bar with Tam not too far behind her.
From the corner of his eye Bowie caught Cadeo’s nod to the bouncer at the door. When Tam walked by Bowie without even looking in his direction, all he could do was stare in stunned silence. But when the bouncer followed, Bowie stood in his way.
The guy was built like a biker. A big, bald, badass with a Fu Manchu mustache and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt that all but screamed I’m going to kick butt and like it.
Bowie smiled but put up a warning hand. “I’ll get her out of here,” he offered.
The bouncer crossed his arms but stayed put.
Bowie headed toward the back of the club. He followed a darkened hallway plastered with posters of the strippers and backlit by neon beer signs. Tam had caught up with Ginger at the end of the dim hall. He ducked into the rest room alcove out of sight.
The stripper and the professor conversed in low tones just outside a door marked Private. Ginger slipped Tam a piece of paper. And Tam slipped Ginger cash.
At least that’s what it looked like to him.
The stripper stepped through a door to what he assumed were the dressing rooms. And Tam turned toward the pay phone. Bowie pressed his back against the wall so she wouldn’t see him.
She dialed out, but he couldn’t make out her whispered words beyond a date.
He continued down the hall, and when Tam hung up the phone a few seconds later, she turned and walked straight into him.
“Excuse me,” she said, clinging to his biceps.
His natural reflex was to hold on. But what he really wanted to do was shake her until she told him what the hell she was up to. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
“I know kung fu. And I won’t hesitate to use it,” she threatened in response to what must have seemed like a pickup line.
He would have laughed, but it was then he realized she didn’t have a clue. He could have walked right by without her ever knowing it was him. He should walk right by. “I’m not the one holding on, Professor.”
Startled, she shifted her gaze upward, giving him the courtesy of eye contact. “Lieutenant Prince?”
He nodded.
She looked him up and down, then at her hands still clutching his arms. “You look…different,” she finished, pulling away from him. “I mean, you’re wearing a different uniform.”
“Grunge is out this season. Thought I’d clean up my act and at least look like an officer.”
“Oh…”
That trailing “oh” didn’t quite make up for the disappointment he’d felt when she hadn’t recognized him right away. Maybe she didn’t need him as much as he thought she did. He’d recognized her even with her hair up and hiding behind glasses. Maybe he wanted her a little too much.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant” she apologized. “You just caught me by surprise. I mean, I didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“That should be my line.”
“I supposed you’re right.” She scanned the posters as if she just realized where they were standing. “Do you come here often?”
He couldn’t help it, he chuckled.
Unable or unwilling to see the humor, she frowned up at him. She took herself too seriously and him too literally. She didn’t get his jokes. Hell, she didn’t even get her own jokes. He could think of a million and one reasons why he shouldn’t be attracted to her. Except when he looked at her, then he couldn’t think of one.
“Again, that should have been my line. So how ’bout we get out of here?”
“I think we should,” she agreed.
“Maybe we could start our evening early with some shopping later this afternoon?” he asked, guiding her to the door with a gentle but firm hand.
“I have a meeting. In fact I should be there right now,” she said, checking her watch as they stepped outside into the daylight. “Afterward, I’m meeting you for dinner.”
She stopped and turned to him on the sidewalk, bestowing one of her rare smiles. His knees went weak as he fumbled with his garrison cap. Covering and uncovering while in uniform was as natural as walking. And right now he couldn’t manage to find his feet or his head.
Either she hadn’t made the connection between Harris and him, or she was playing it cool. As she had with his knife.
“I have to wait that long to get my knife back, huh?”
“What kind of shopping?” she asked, suddenly interested in changing the subject. “I have some errands myself and a wad of cash to spend that isn’t mine. Will ran out of hair gel. Katie’s craving chocolate. Just about everyone on the island wants something.”
“Well…” he hedged. “If you must know, the real reason I joined the Navy is the uniform. I can’t color-coordinate my clothes. I need someone to pick them out for me.”
“In other words, you want me to dress you?”
“Or undress me, no pressure.” Teasing a blush out of her made him feel all warm on the inside. “But we can talk about that later.”
“Don’t count on it.” She checked her watch once again. “So six, sevenish…I really don’t know how long I’ll be. Where do you want to meet? Or should I call you when I’m through?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll find you.”
The door to the club opened and Ginger stepped outside. “I’ll see you back here at six, Lieutenant. I can’t wait to take you shopping,” she said, grabbing his arm and giving it a squeeze. “You’re going to look so GQ when I’m through wi
th you.”
Tam looked at the redhead. Then at him. “Shopping…huh, Lieutenant Prince?” she asked, over those oh-so-prim-and-proper rims. “Don’t you mean shopping around?”
Bowie disengaged himself from the stripper. He could only wish the Volcano Gods would accept him as a sacrifice right then and there. “I, ah—”
“I didn’t know he was your man, Professor,” Ginger gushed. “The girlfriends never understand,” she added in an aside to him.
“He isn’t my man. But he is my date for this evening.”
“I saw him first,” Ginger said mistakenly.
“Xin loi, minoi!”
“Troi oi!” Ginger clicked her tongue and walked off in a huff.
“Chao.”
“I recognized ‘sorry’ and ‘good-bye,’ but I’d really like to know what you said to make her so mad. I usually like to break my own dates without stomping on someone’s feelings.”
“Too bad, honey!”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Xin loi, minoi. Too bad, honey. Sorry about that…I feel sorry for you… It’s not always an apology.”
“I take it she wasn’t apologizing to you, either.”
“Troi oi is just an emphatic expression. It can mean anything. I’m sure she meant it exactly the way she said it.” She raised her eyebrows above her glasses for emphasis.
He was a man who could appreciate having two women fighting over him. But he felt the guilty pleasure of a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. So instead of pulling his hand out, he reached right in. “I just stopped by to pick up a credit card I left here the other night. And I ran into Ginger…” He shrugged. “I really do need help with shopping. And I didn’t know you had the time.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Lieutenant,” she said, fussing with her delicate wristwatch. “I can see why you’d find her attractive.”
“Because she’s independent and makes six figures?” he asked, baiting the hook.
“Try mammary glands.”
“You think I’m a breast man?” He grinned.
“No, I think all heterosexual men are hardwired to appreciate a young woman’s breasts. But what you don’t realize is that you’re not really interested for your own sake. It’s all about picking someone to carry and suckle your young. So you spend your entire lives running from the truth.”
Midway Between You and Me (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 7