by Travis Stone
'Danny,' she said. 'I forgot to mention - I've come across a very important story - a big one.'
Danny slid his camera into his satchel. 'Yeah, babe. What is it?'
She opened her mouth but the words turned to glue on her tongue.
'I've gotta go babe. What's up?'
'Nothing, darling. It can wait.'
He bent down and kissed her.
'Hurry back,' she said. 'I'll miss you.'
He smiled. 'I love you.'
He left. She listened to his footsteps going down the stairs.
Something told her that not telling him would be a decision she would regret for the rest of her life.
5
December 27, 0445
Atop the US Embassy's roof, Captain Nash of Military Intelligence monitored Amai's building. He would've loved nothing more than to arrest Amai, but he couldn't - not yet.
Through the circles of his Zeiss binoculars, he watched Danny leave via the front door, get in his Press Corp jeep, and then drive away.
Nash waited for Amai.
He had no proof that she was a communist spy, but he knew she was. He grinned. She would lead him to the big fish - in MI, they called him, The Ghost. Nash could have forced Amai's knowledge of The Ghost's whereabouts under torture, but following her would net the results without compromising the element of surprise; and for this guy, surprise was critical - The Ghost was elusive. Nash believed the Viet Cong to be planning something big; a major attack - in Saigon itself. Everything pointed to it. Nash's superiors disagreed.
Idiots. Nash shook his head. Why can't they see it?
But Nash wasn't about to let incompetent superiors stop him. The situation presented the perfect opportunity to shatter the Viet Cong plot, expose the incompetence of his commanders, and confirm his own superiority.
They'll be forced to promote me - again, he thought. He smirked.
Nash had been promoted to Captain only eight weeks ago, but he wanted to rise quickly through the ranks, and this war was the perfect opportunity to do so.
Nash tensed. Amai was on her rooftop.
So that's how she been doing it.
She walked to the front edge and looked down into Thong Nhut Boulevard. Then she went to the rear parapet. Nash adjusted the binoculars' focus wheel, and Amai's image sharpened.
Wow. Nash felt a buzz. Before seeing Amai, he had had hourly fantasies involving doggy-style sex with Audrey Hepburn. But now he only fantasized about Amai. Amai was sexier. She oozed sensuality. Nash stroked his thickening penis through his uniform trousers.
Stay on task, he cautioned himself.
His vantage-point let him see most of her clever evasion technique. Her agility surprised him. Her body was full and supple and her firm breasts bounced rapidly as she ran over the tarred roof. He could see why the reporter had fallen for her scam. Danny was a suave looking cat, but Nash had detected a lack of confidence: during their conversation at the Grand, Danny had repetitively touched his nose, and constantly broke-off eye contact to look at the ground. He was obviously a determined journalist, prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to get his story, but there was also some underlying flaw - something broken in his psyche that made him vulnerable. It was that vulnerability that an agent like Amai would exploit.
Nash prided himself on confidence. He always maintained a macho posture. Self-belief was the name of the game in the Intelligence business; without it you would quickly become prey in a carnivorous world.
Nash watched Amai drop over the rear parapet. She's confident, he thought. Too confident.
Vietnamese females were deferential: quiet, shy, averting their eyes, squatting rather than standing, covering faces with scarves; but not Amai. She strode self-assuredly, she never squatted, and even through binoculars, he could see that the centers of her oval eyes burned with a purpose.
Nash believed the Viet Cong to be a far more formidable enemy than his superiors. Among the obvious signs of insurrection, Nash had detected the existence of an all female spy network. Nash believed Amai to be one of them. These female spies obtained highly classified information, such as battle-plans and targets, with ease. As a result, when US attacks were launched, the forewarned enemy was gone, leaving a waiting ambush. The disaster at Ap Bac had been the start of it, and Nash was sure that Amai's network had been involved; possibly even Amai herself. Since then, things had gotten much worse.
I'll smash this little spy ring to pieces, Nash thought.
But the Commander, The Ghost, eluded him. Nash had no idea who he was, or even what he looked like. Locations revealed by tortured spies had always been abandoned hours or minutes before Nash's teams arrived to make the arrest.
But now that Nash had Amai to follow, he would find The Ghost.
In preparation for an attack the size that Nash suspected, the VC would have stockpiled weapons, ammunition, battle-plans, and orders. He would rub these in the face of his immediate superior, Colonel Hitchcock.
All he needed was The Ghost.
Amai was his bait.
Nash took his radio's handset and directed two of his Corporals to the rear of Amai's building. 'Observe only,' he said. 'Goddamn don't let her see you.'
Prone to impulsiveness, his Corporals needed to be kept on a tight leash.
* * *
So as to standout, Amai had worn her blue dress.
Specks of melted tar from the roof had stuck to the soles of her sandals. She vaulted the last parapet and dropped into the alley.
They must've seen me.
She made her way to the main street and waved down a powered-cyclo; a three-wheeled machine with red wheels and blue mudguards and a bench-seat in front of the rider.
Amai got into the seat. 'Cholon, please. Follow the canal.'
'Kenh Tau Hu?'
'Yes.'
There was a pre-determined procedure for an emergency meeting with Triet. It involved taking a red scarf to a Cholon address, putting it under the doormat, and then waiting at a strip-club called, The Flashing Tiger.
Amai was nervous.
The cyclo bumped over the rough pavement, the driver working hard to avoid collisions with the motorbikes, cycles, and pedestrians that swarmed the road. The familiar smells of fish oil and broth mixed with the humid air, the sickly aroma clinging to her clothing, hair, and skin.
Every now and then Amai glanced back past the driver. There was no sign of a tail.
Surely they saw me?
The noisy cyclo added to the hanging pollution. In Cholon, the streets narrowed and she could smell the canal, behind the buildings on her left. She still hadn't spotted the tail.
Where are they?
Without warning, a motorbike towing a makeshift trailer came out of a side-street and into the cyclo's path. The trailer, wrapped in a wire cage, was crammed full of piglets. The motorbike was out of control, its overloaded trailer tilted one way, then the other, and then rolled onto its side. The trailer hit the pavement and the cage broke open. Piglets ran squealing in all directions.
Amai's driver swerved to the right to avoid the crashed trailer. She was sure the cyclo would roll. The right front wheel lifted off the ground and the contraption spun sideways. They skidded to a stop facing the curb. The motor chugged for several seconds and then died. A piglet knocked a woman off her bicycle; others caused the traffic to stop. One just stood in the roadway, paralyzed by indecision.
Amai thought herself lucky to have avoided injury.
Then she saw the tail and her body stiffened. Reflected in a shop window, two brand-new BSA motor-scooters pulled over and stopped. They were ridden by Americans with military style haircuts.
The cyclo would not restart. Amai helped the driver push it to the roadside. Acting casually, as one who did not expect to be followed, she started walking up the street. The Intelligence officers followed. Then it happened.
Automatic weapons' fire opened-up behind her. Amai's head snapped around. Someone was shooting at the Americans. The me
n on the new BSA scooters fell onto their sides.
Then she saw the jeep.
American soldiers jumped from the jeep and started shooting. A hailstorm of bullets clattered off the masonry and ricocheted across the street. Amai began to run.
The Americans gave chase.
She reached the canal edge. In the water below, a line of small barges were moored against the wall. Amai jumped from the bank and thudded onto a barge's deck. It rocked violently and the owner fell into the brown water. Amai ran through its leafy cargo and then leapt the short gap to the next boat. Ahead of her the flotilla provided an unstable pontoon that led deeper into the steep-sided canal. The further she went, the higher the wall rose above her, but beyond putting distance between her and the Americans, she had no plan.
She glanced back. Two Americans had reached the bank; they held M-16s. Behind them, a beefy soldier was yelling for them to stop.
She thought: I'm done for.
Then the crackle of gunfire echoed across the water.
* * *
Nash was gutted by his own stupidity, but he had no time to think.
He watched in disbelief as bullets thudded into the chests of his two corporals. For a second, it didn't seem real.
Fucking do something, he thought.
Nash knew if he didn't react, he would die.
He leapt onto the barge, landing on his feet in a pile of vegetables. His ears were ringing; the muscles in his legs sluggish. This was his first time in a real gun fight.
Nash ran for his life along the barges, but Amai had made them rock and he struggled to keep his feet.
I'm moving like a slug.
As he stumbled forward, he expected to hear the shot that would end his life.
* * *
Afraid, Amai came to the last boat in the line. Here the canal wall rose to over ten feet above her head.
There's no way out.
The strapping American came toward her, arms and feet spread wide, struggling to keep his balance on the rocking boats. She looked past him and saw the Viet Cong man; he was one of Triet's. The VC man raised his AK-47 and the shots crackled.
Bullets hit the deck, inches from the Intelligence Officer. He slewed sideways, his face etched with fear.
The next burst hit the man's lower legs.
Amai watched him stumble, fall into the murky water, and disappear from view.
Rooted-to-the-spot, she locked eyes with Triet's man. Almost unbelievably, the front of his body was churned into red paste as bullets ripped through his chest. Behind him, Amai saw General Loan and knew that she was next.
She looked up the brick face of the canal wall, and halfway up saw the rim of a concrete storm-water pipe. The storm-water flowed into the canal via large pipes in this part of the city. This was one was about three feet in diameter and dribbled a foul smelling discharge. Amai didn't hesitate. She knew what she had to do to survive.
She jumped vertically and caught the lip with both hands. It was slimy. Her hands slipped. Then her fingertips found chips in the masonry. She gripped on for all she was worth, hauled herself up, and slithered through the opening.
Amai felt sure that Loan had had a clear shot, and wondered why he hadn't fired.
He wants to follow me.
The pipeline reeked of gas. She held her breath and crawled through the sludge as fast as she could. The fumes forced her to hold her breath and she feared she would suffocate.
An iron grill appeared in the pipe wall. Amai pushed her mouth between the bars and took a breath. The air was barely breathable. Looking out, she realized that she was on the far side of the street, looking back at the stalled cyclo. General Loan had the cyclo driver by the scruff of the neck. Amai took more air, held her breath again, and then crawled further into the pipe. She found another vent, and took more air. Ahead of her was a ladder with a ring of light above it. She climbed to street level; then she ran.
She felt like kicking herself; but she'd done everything right - the MI soldiers had made the mistake. They had ruined her plan.
Where will I go now? She thought. Panic set in. I can't go back to the flat.
A man stepped in front of her; a Vietnamese man; the man from the Trung Hoa. She looked around. There were more.
They're Viet Cong.
The man from The Trung Hoa shoved her into a doorway. Amai knew that they knew who she was.
He said: 'Where're you going?'
'None of your-'
'Where?'
There was violence in the man's eyes, but Amai didn't think he would really hit her. 'To Triet.'
'Fool-'
'I have information.'
The man appraised her. 'What information.'
'I deal with Triet, not you.'
He laughed. 'I'll take you to him.' His voice was harsh. 'Follow me.'
Amai grimaced; it couldn't have turned out any worse. What a spectacular failure.
The Flashing Tiger was only a block away. Amai disliked the strip-club almost as much as she disliked The Trung Hoa. The sleazy atmosphere was a breading ground for womanizing, drugs, and crime.
Inside she passed a sultry girl dressed in tatty lingerie. The girl flipped backwards onto a pole, and started spinning upside down. The Trung Hoa thug went to the bar. Amai spotted the toilet and went in. She took off her wet dress and underwear, and washed off the drainpipe's grime. Then she went through another door, which led from the bathroom, into the strippers' changing room. She found some clothes, put them on, and then went back into the club. The top fitted too tightly across her chest.
Triet was waiting at the bar.
6
Tan Son Nhut AFB
Hangar 38
10°48'49.62"N 106°39'25.00"E
Danny parked the jeep. A man in a flight-suit stood in front of the hangar.
'Morning, Sir.' The pilot said, obviously checking Danny's face against a small photograph. 'We'll get your suit on and get airborne.'
'A flight-suit?'
'Yes, Sir. You're flying Phantom Airways.'
Danny felt giddy. 'Oh.' It was an over-the-top way to travel, but the General did have some pull.
He followed the pilot across the tarmac to the rear of an arched, concrete hangar, and realized the high-pitched whining sound was probably coming from his ride. The air inside the hangar was rich with the nauseating smell of JP-4 exhaust.
The pilot helped him into the flight-suit and Danny could see the grey Phantom, waiting on the tarmac like a captured shark, desperate to swim away. He felt nervous and hoped he wouldn't throw-up in the cockpit.
Danny put on the green helmet and waddled out to the big jet. The pilot indicated the steps. Danny climbed into the backseat. He was sweating. The pilot buckled Danny's harness, and then got into the front. The canopy came down, sealing Danny in. He felt helpless; his life now in the hands of a man he'd know less than ten minutes. The Phantom rolled forward and taxied fast before turning onto the wide runway.
A metallic female voice came through Danny's helmet speakers: 'Surger four-four, cleared to takeoff runway zero-seven right.'
A mighty roar engulfed him and Danny felt his body crush back into the seat. Then the ground was moving rapidly away; the wings shuddering; the roar falling back to a shrill whine.
Christ, what a thrill.
The jet climbed steeply, giving Danny a magnificent view of the continent.
'We'll go angels-twenty,' the pilot's voice came through the helmet. 'We're over Cambodia now.'
'That's fast.'
'Already doing eight-hundred-miles-an-hour, Sir.'
Cambodia flashed below.
'Thai airspace.'
A city grew out of the landscape.
'A last minute change of location,' the pilot said. 'We'll be landing at Bangkok.'
Odd, Danny thought. The General had purposefully concealed Benmore's location.
Danny could hear a faint Asian voice giving instructions to the pilot. The jet banked sickeningly hard to the
right, and as it leveled, a long runway stood ahead. The Phantom felt like it was coming in too fast. Danny gripped the seat. The airframe shook. The landing gear clunked as they opened and locked. Fat white lines and a big number '03' flashed below. The jet touched down, pulled-up hard, and turned right off the runway.
'Welcome to Bangkok, we hope you enjoyed your flight.'
Danny checked his watch; twenty-two minutes ago he had been in Saigon. The jet taxied to a row of hangars where a lone C-130 stood, turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and then stopped. The pilot unbuckled Danny, and told him to go into the hangar.
Danny climbed down and walked across the apron, feeling woozy. The Phantom taxied away behind him. Danny walked through the empty hangar to the far end. A door opened and a man walked in.
'Come with me.' The man's words were as blunt as his features and Danny instantly got the feeling that he could 'handle himself'. The man opened the passenger's door of a Citroen Lady Grey parked behind the hangar, and then got into the driver's seat. Danny got in beside him. 'I assume you'll take me to Benmore?'
The man grunted and the Citroen pulled away.
Bangkok's traffic was thick, but unlike Saigon's, mostly cars and busses. Suddenly the Citroen swerved into a side street and accelerated; the driver's eyes flicking from the rear-vision-mirror to the road and back.
Danny looked back. A tan colored sedan turned the corner behind them. The Citron turned sharp left; the tan car followed.
'Fuck,' the blunt-faced man said.
7
Triet glared at her.
'You were followed, Amai,' he said.
'I got away.'
Triet's eyes stayed on hers. 'Why do you want to see me? . . . What has happened?'
With a sick feeling, she held up Danny's secret letter.
Triet read it, nodded, said: 'Well done,' and then put it in his pocket.
'I hate this place,' she said. 'I'm going.'
Triet put a hand on her shoulder. 'No. You're coming with me.'
She felt trapped. 'Where?'
'We need each others' help. Let's go.'
She had no intention of having Triet help her; but Amai did fear being caught by the Americans. If she were, Tet would be finished - but so would she.