by Eric Helm
Gerber held out a hand and said, “Glad to meet you.” Yashimoto was of medium height, five nine or ten and had dark eyes and jet-black hair. His face was round with a slightly pointed chin. Gerber noticed that he had exceptionally large hands and wondered if he would be too clumsy to work in the delicate interior of a radio. Bocker had slender fingers, like those of a brain surgeon.
“This is Philip Grummond,” said Maxwell, “a medic now assigned to you.”
Gerber turned and shook hands with Grummond. He looked to be older, maybe twenty-five or six, about six feet tall and a stocky build. Piercing blue eyes studied Gerber without wavering. He had a massive jaw, and when he smiled it looked as if he had ten or twelve extra teeth. His ears jutted out prominently, and he’d let his brown hair grow longer than regulations dictated, unsuccessfully trying to hide them. His uniform was faded, as if he had been in Vietnam for several weeks, but his boots were spit-shined, glowing like black mirrors.
“And finally,” said Maxwell, “this is First Lieutenant Glen Mildebrandt, assigned as your new executive officer.”
Mildebrandt was a big man. Huge would have been a better word, Gerber thought. He had black hair, light eyes, a pointed chin and Roman nose. He smiled at Gerber, seemed to be about to burst out laughing and said, “Glad to meet you, sir.”
“Glad to meet all of you,” said Gerber.
“Now that should put your team and your TO&E back to full strength,” said Maxwell. “Captain Bromhead talked to each of these men yesterday and thought you’d approve the choices.”
“All right,” said Gerber, “if Johnny said they were good, I’ll trust him on that. What about transport out to the camp?”
“Arranged. Chopper’s standing by at Hotel Three to run you out there, as soon as you’re ready.”
“Then let’s get going. Lieutenant, why don’t you make sure that you’re properly checked out of the transient billets and collect your gear. I’ll meet you at the terminal at Hotel Three.” Gerber glanced at Maxwell and wondered if he wasn’t being sandbagged. Everything he wanted was being handed to him. He hadn’t really said he would accept the assignment, and suddenly it was as if he was going to be leaving in a few hours.
Maxwell held up a hand. “There’s one more for you to meet. We’ll swing by another room here. Meanwhile, you men can do your thing. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”
As they left the room, Gerber said, “They seemed to be oddly uncurious about the camp.”
“Captain Bromhead spent a couple of hours talking to them about it yesterday. Made you sound like a cross between George Patton and U. S. Grant. I think they’re a little bit afraid of you right now.”
They stopped in front of another door. Maxwell grinned at Gerber as if in on a private joke. “Right in here.” He opened the door without knocking.
Gerber followed him in and stopped dead in his tracks. A Vietnamese woman was sitting alone in the room, a thin, black cigar clamped between her teeth and her feet propped up on a table. She wore a black skirt that was hiked above her knees, displaying shapely legs, and Gerber got a glimpse of red panties. Her white silk blouse had four rows of vertical ruffles flanking the buttons, the top two of which were open. He could see the edge of her bra hiding the swell of her breasts. Perspiration stood on her forehead and upper lip. Her jet-black hair hung over the back of the chair and reached almost to the floor.
“This is Brouchard Bien Soo Ta Emilie,” said Maxwell.
The woman didn’t move or look up from her thick book. Gerber noticed that it was a French edition of War and Peace. She seemed not to care that anyone had entered the room.
“She’s assigned as a scout for your mission.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Gerber.
For the first time the young woman looked up. Gerber noticed that she had a thin narrow face, not oval like most Orientals. Her eyes were a light color, maybe blue, maybe gray. She turned her attention back to her book and then glanced at Gerber again.
She snapped the book shut, took the cigar out of her mouth and reached up to the buttons of her blouse, but could do nothing about it with the cigar in her hand. As she put the cigar back in her mouth, she dropped her feet to the floor and pulled her skirt down so it covered her knees. She pulled the cigar from her mouth and tried to crush it out but hit the edge of the ashtray, spilling it.
“I’m… I…” she started, and then stopped. She put a hand over her eyes, as if she could hide behind it, and a blush crawled up her neck and spread across her face until it was lost in her hairline.
“Please,” said Gerber, smiling. “Relax. We should have knocked.”
Now she stood. She was tall for a Vietnamese, almost five two. She proffered a delicate hand and said, “It’s my fault. It’s so warm that I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to relax quite so much.”
“Hell,” interjected Maxwell, “if you were that hot, you could have taken off all your clothes. We wouldn’t have objected.”
She looked at the floor as the blush broke out on her face again.
Gerber took her hand and looked into her eyes, realizing that they weren’t light blue but a darker, nearly violet color. He had never seen eyes so blue.
She held his hand a moment longer than necessary and then stared up at him. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, her French accent noticeable for the first time.
“Yes,” said Maxwell, “I can see you are.”
Gerber shot him a glance and then said, “Jerry, I want to see you in the hallway. Right now.”
“If you’ll excuse us,” said Maxwell, bowing.
In the hallway Gerber shut the door and said, “This is too much. I’m not taking a woman on this. Especially her.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Christ, man, look at her. She’s beautiful. I’m supposed to wander around the jungle with a bunch of horny men and one beautiful woman? You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“You wandered around out there with Morrow,” countered Maxwell.
“That was different.”
“How so?”
“She was an American journalist. We didn’t wander around the jungle with her. Not on a mission like we’re being sent on. It was a short-term recon, not an extended patrol into the heart of enemy territory.”
“Well, she’s going,” said Maxwell. “I can haul out another piece of paper that makes it clear to you — another order — but I would rather report that you saw the light and didn’t force the issue.”
Gerber rubbed a hand through his hair. It was damp with sweat. He wiped it on the front of his fatigue jacket. “What makes it so important that this woman go with us?”
“For one thing, she knows the area. She lived in there for a couple of years. She understands the VC, understands the workings of their infrastructure.”
“How did she learn so much?” asked Gerber, a sinking feeling in his gut.
“She’s a Kit Carson. Came over to us after a VC captain decided she would be of more use as his bedmate than a soldier, ignoring her protests that she was married. He was a lot rougher than he had to be.”
“Oh, that’s just fucking great,” said Gerber. “That’s exactly what I need.”
Maxwell clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “That’s good because that’s exactly what you’ve got.”
CHAPTER 4
TERMINAL BUILDING, HOTEL THREE, TAN SON NHUT
Gerber rode in the back of the jeep while Maxwell drove and Brouchard Bien Soo Ta Emilie sat in the front, her hands folded in her lap. Her long, black hair flapped in the breeze as they sped along. Occasionally she stole glances over her shoulder, watching Gerber as he studied the surroundings of Tan Son Nhut.
They parked the jeep outside the gate that led into the PX and Hotel Three. The guard was reluctant to let a Vietnamese civilian through, although most of his reluctance might have been a desire to talk to her. Gerber produced an ID card that failed to impress the MP, but Maxwell had the order
signed by Westmoreland, and that did the trick. Once through, they walked by the PX and the fence that protected part of the helipad.
At the entrance to the terminal, Gerber said, “You wait here, and I’ll see if the others have arrived.”
Maxwell nodded and took the woman’s arm. “Just hurry it up, please.” Gerber stepped into the terminal. It was more crowded than he remembered ever seeing it. That had to be because of the continuing buildup of American forces. Men in jungle fatigues, most carrying weapons, stood in knots that filled the interior. Gerber knew there was a wooden counter in there somewhere, behind which the scheduling NCO and his assistants waited, but he couldn’t see it. He had a hard time spotting the scheduling board on the wall.
He pushed his way in, stopped and tried to see over the heads and shoulders of the crowd, but he couldn’t identify anyone. Then, from a corner, he heard someone calling his name and turned in time to see Mildebrandt waving at him.
Gerber made his way toward the man and shouted a greeting over the noise of soldiers lying to one another about their exploits the night before, telling each other bad jokes or arguing the relative merits of the expansion teams in baseball. As he got close, he saw that Yashimoto was in animated conversation with someone, and as a burly sergeant shifted his weight, Gerber felt himself grow cold.
Robin Morrow, dressed in a modified jumpsuit that left her legs and arms bare, was seated with the new men. Her light hair was pulled back off her face, and her green eyes blazed as she talked, gesturing with a slender hand. She looked like she needed sleep, the dark circles under her eyes standing out in stark contrast to her light skin. Her black combat boots looked as if they had never seen a brush, let alone polish, and now looked a dirty gray. Next to her was a camera bag and a suitcase.
When she saw Gerber, she leaped to her feet, but the press of soldiers prevented her from running to him. She called, “Mack! Mack, it’s good to see you.”
Gerber didn’t want a confrontation with her in the terminal building at Hotel Three. He’d thought that Robin would just show up at the camp one day and he’d have a chance to put her straight immediately. In fact, he’d hoped that Karen would have written to her sister so that anything he said wouldn’t come as a complete surprise. And then he realized that he didn’t have to say much to her in the terminal. There were so many people crowded into it that she wouldn’t have a chance to read his expression.
Robin forced her way through the throng and grabbed Gerber, hugging him tightly. He embraced her in response but tried to keep emotion out of it. He was acutely aware of Karen’s letter in his pocket. He pulled away gently but firmly and said, “Robin. Didn’t expect you.”
“No,” she said, laughing. “I guess you didn’t.”
“Captain,” said Mildebrandt, “I assume we’re ready to go?”
“Yes,” said Gerber quickly, thankful for the diversion. He glanced at Robin and then back at the new lieutenant. “You’ve met Miss Morrow?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “She’s been telling us some more about the camp.”
“Grab your gear and let’s get out of here.”
Morrow whirled, nearly knocked down a skinny captain, and grabbed her suitcase and camera bag. Before Gerber could escape, she handed him her suitcase.
They managed to get out of the terminal and stopped in front of Maxwell. He held out his hand and said, “Thanks for coming down, Mack. Good luck with your mission.”
“Yeah, Jerry,” said Gerber. “Good luck.” He set the suitcase down and said, “Robin, men, this is… say, what do we call you? Your full name is a little bit cumbersome.”
“I will make it easy for you.” She smiled. “You may call me Emilie, the name I received from my French father before he ran away to his homeland.”
“Emilie, then,” said Gerber. He was going to make the introductions more formal, but the whine of a Huey engine washed out the sound of his voice.
Morrow moved closer to him, and then the men began heading across the tarmac and grass toward the lone chopper that was sitting there. Maxwell lifted a hand and yelled, “Have fun, people,” as he disappeared through the fence.
“Let’s just board and get out of here,” growled Gerber. “As quickly as possible.”
The flight to the camp was interesting. Robin sat on the floor of the cargo compartment, leaning against the backrest of one of the pilot’s seats. She had her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin on her knees as she stared at Emilie, who had pulled some maneuvers so that she ended up sitting beside Gerber. Emilie kept her hands on the hem of her skin to hold it down and leaned to the left so that her shoulder touched Gerber’s.
Mildebrandt sat watching the whole thing, trying to figure out what was going on. He had been in the army long enough to know that most military units the size of a Special Forces A-Team didn’t have good-looking women hanging around them, didn’t get their own journalists. It was going to be an assignment to enjoy.
When they were close to the camp, the crew chief leaned out of his well and shouted, “We’re about five out.”
Gerber nodded and yelled back, “Can you circle it a couple of times? Let the new guys have a look at their home for the next several months.”
The crew chief disappeared for a moment and then his hand reappeared, his thumb up to indicate to Gerber that they would get the tour. Gerber leaned across Emilie and shouted at Yashimoto and Grummond to let them know they were about to get an aerial view of the camp.
As they circled, Gerber saw someone, probably Bocker, run from the commo bunker, through the gate and out onto the helipad. A moment later a thick cloud of green began billowing, obscuring the edge of the pad. The cloud drifted into the wire, hiding one of the arms of the star.
They made two more passes and then began a descent from the west. The moment they touched down on the helipad, Gerber grabbed his gear and weapon and leaped to the ground. He saw Fetterman and Tyme approaching from the direction of the camp, both strolling along casually. Gerber turned back to the aircraft and was handed Morrow’s suitcase. He held on to it because the peta-prime that covered the helipad was soft from the sun.
Mildebrandt climbed out and turned to help Emilie down. Then Grummond gave him some of their gear, and he dropped it to the pad because he didn’t know a thing about peta-prime. It was a substance that had been kept hidden from the World. Only Vietnam had the rare and distinct privilege of having it coat everything that anyone owned.
When Fetterman reached the helicopter, Gerber handed Morrow’s suitcase to him.
“Ah, Miss Morrow,” said Fetterman, grinning. He had already noticed one of the looks that the unidentified Vietnamese woman had given the captain. “This could be very interesting,” he added.
“What could be interesting, Master Sergeant?” she asked.
“Oh, everything.”
“This is, ah, Emilie,” said Gerber, pointing at her, trying to divert the conversation.
“Emilie,” said Fetterman. “Welcome to our camp.”
“Who’s she?” asked Tyme.
“I’ll get everything sorted out just as soon as we get off this damned helipad,” snapped Gerber. “Sergeant Fetterman, I want to meet with you, Sergeant Tyme and Sergeant Kepler in my hootch in twenty minutes. Find Sully or T.J. and have them arrange quarters for the new men. Lieutenant Mildebrandt will take Novak’s quarters. Everyone understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Morrow reached out and jerked her suitcase from Fetterman. “I’ll take that, thank you, and I can find my way to my own quarters,” she said, stomping off.
“Miss Morrow,” called Fetterman, hurrying after her. “Your old quarters no longer exist. They burned with the rest of the camp.”
She stopped suddenly. “Burned?” Then she remembered the battle for the camp. “That’s right, they burned.”
Fetterman caught her and took the suitcase from her hand. “Let me have that. I think we’ll be able to find something. Maybe have our guys vacate one
of their hootches.”
She waved a hand without looking at him. “Whatever you decide will be fine.”
The rest of them left the pad, and the helicopter took off, low-leveling away, as if the pilot wanted to impress the ladies with his skill. He hopped over a tree line and disappeared on the other side of it, but when there was no orange ball of flame or pillar of black smoke, everyone assumed that he had managed not to crash.
Gerber was sitting behind his desk when Fetterman knocked on the doorjamb and announced, “We’re here, Captain.”
“Come on in and have a seat.” Gerber folded the letter he held in one hand, having read it for the sixth time, and jammed it into the top pocket of his fatigues. He automatically reached for the bottle of Beam’s, hesitated, remembering that Fetterman had suggested he might be fostering alcoholism in the unit, and then decided he needed a drink. He pulled the cork, took a swig and handed it to Fetterman, who now sat in one of the lawn chairs opposite the desk. The bottle made the rounds as each man took a drink.
“Yeah. That’s smooth,” Gerber said, after Kepler returned the Beam’s to him. He pounded the cork back into the bottle before he spoke again. “Okay, Tony, why don’t you close the door. I don’t want to be interrupted for the next hour or so, and I doubt it’ll get much hotter in here anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First… oh, did we get everyone settled?”
Fetterman explained that they had moved a couple of bunks into Sully’s and Tyme’s hootches. Washington had opted to move his gear into the dispensary, and although no one had asked, it was assumed that Bocker would sleep in the commo bunker until things settled down.
“And,” Fetterman added, grinning, “I don’t believe our female guests are too happy with the arrangements. I put them in the same hootch. Neither said a word, but the electricity was flying. They’ll either become fast friends or kill each other sometime tonight.”
“Whatever happens,” said Gerber, “it’ll solve a lot of problems. Okay, now the reason I’ve called this meeting.” He lowered his voice. “We’re going to Cambodia.”