The Cover of War

by Travis Stone

Nash's big problem though, was Hitchcock.

  Somehow Hitchcock had learned that he had made enquiries into Major Johnson's whereabouts, and had called him and ordered him to stop. Hitchcock's voice had been unusually strained, and he didn't care one iota that Amai was working Johnson. Nash recalled Hitchcock's words with disgust: Johnson is not to be touched. He works for people that we do not fuck with. He has full Pentagon clearance and answers only to the Defense Secretary.

  Nash had tried to impress the situation's importance on the aging Colonel, but as usual, he wouldn't listen. The man was infuriating.

  Nash looked up Dong Khoi, and thought: Works for people we do not fuck with. Answers only to the Defense Secretary. For Christ's sake, there's a war on.

  Nash however, was not prepared to let Amai go, and if the highly protected, nonexistent Major happened to be with her - too bad.

  Major Johnson knew something; and that something was driving Amai to desperate lengths. If she made Johnson talk through bribery or sexual manipulation, there would be repercussions, both for the US Military, and Nash's career. Hitchcock would certainly find a way to turn it all around and blame Nash for failing to stop her.

  The only way that Nash could win was to get Amai, and then take down the Viet Cong Commander. There were men above Hitchcock, who would applaud decisive action. They would see Nash's worth. They would promote him. He just had to get Amai.

  Nash's men had dispersed, and were now searching the inner city's boutique eating houses; the ones where a rich American officer would go to show off his beautiful young trophy.

  Then with a jolt, Nash remembered something: he had seen a black-man - one who fitted the Major's description perfectly. Yes, there had only been one setting at his table, but the other chair had been pulled out and left askew, as if recently departed.

  Where? Nash thought. Think.

  Nash racked his brain. Then it came to him: The Continental.

  Then he remembered the person vomiting in the men's room. 'Shit,' he said aloud.

  Nash went down the Opera house's stone steps two at a time, and when he hit the footpath, he broke into a run.

  The Continental wasn't far.

  * * *

  The nervous waiter came to the table and told Amai that she had a message at the desk. His eyes told her it was the serum.

  Good, she thought. She was itching to leave. She said to the Major: 'Let's get out of here.'

  'You've hardly eaten.'

  She loaded her voice with seductiveness: 'I prefer my meat to be more . . . firm.'

  The Major stood. 'Let's go.'

  Amai went to the desk and the Maitre d' put his closed hand on the counter. She put her hand beside his and he slipped the vial into her palm. Amai closed her hand tightly around the small glass tube; dropping it would mean failure - failure meant death.

  Without permission, her mind replayed the sexual encounter with Johnson and Thi. She remembered the shuddering orgasm and felt a tingling between her legs. She shook herself and slipped the serum into a pocket.

  Amai studied the Major as he paid the bill. His was clueless.

  The Maitre d' held open the door and bade them goodnight. The Major hung a heavy arm around her neck, and they walked like lovers, through the lobby, and out into the balmy night air.

  * * *

  Nash got to the Hotel Continental puffing. He rushed inside and made a fast circuit of the dining room.

  The big Negro had gone; his table vacant.

  Nash remembered the person vomiting in the men's room, and he cringed. You idiot.

  Nash confronted the Maitre d'. 'The black-man.' Nash pointed to the table. 'Was he alone?'

  'I remember the man,' the Maitre d' said. 'A good tipper. Yes, yes, he was alone tonight. He is a regular here. Loves the cannelloni. Never seen someone eat so much of it.'

  Nash thought: A simple yes would've done. The man seemed tense - too tense.

  Behind the bar, a nervous looking waiter fidgeted with a glass.

  The Maitre d' looked at his feet.

  Nash's heart started pumping harder. 'What's his name?'

  The Maitre d' ran a slender finger down the register. 'Mr. Smith. Yes. He left only a moment ago. You could catch him if you hurry.'

  'Which way?'

  The Maitre d' pointed toward the inner city.

  Nash said: 'How did Amai look?'

  For a second, the Maitre d's eyes widened. 'Who? Mr. Smith was alone.'

  'Amai,' Nash snarled. 'The woman that was with Major Johnson.'

  'I'm sorry. I you have the man confused.'

  The Maitre d' had re-gained his composure, but Nash knew he was lying.

  I'll deal with you later.

  Nash went out onto Dong Khoi and flagged a taxi, figuring that Johnson would take Amai back to the villa behind the Embassy. Then he recalled his recent failure at Thi's flat and touched his swollen eye-socket. He felt a physical pain in his gut as he remembered Amai climbing over the wall.

  I need to do it right this time, he thought.

  Nash weighed his options: gathering all of his men would eat up valuable time - time that he didn't have.

  Then he got an idea.

  He paid the taxi to wait, and then went back into the Hotel lobby to use the phone.

  * * *

  The taxi dropped Amai and the Major directly opposite the police station on Mac Dinh Chi Street.

  She looked over her shoulder. The street was clear, but she felt deeply apprehensive.

  Every fiber of her being was screaming for her to run.

  She looked at the Embassy, which dominated the corner. Major Johnson took her arm and led her across the street to the night-gate, where a group of MPs armed with assault rifles stood in front of a lowered vehicle barrier. Overhead spotlights turned the puddles into mirrors, and Amai studied the MPs' reflections, trying to pick their mood. One was leaning against the barrier. One took off his helmet and scratched his head. One adjusted his weapon. Their faces were unreadable.

  She and the Major reached the guardhouse.

  The MPs stiffened.

  Adrenaline covered Amai's back with a thousand needle pricks.

  This was the point-of-no-return.

  Do they have my description? She thought. Will they arrest me right here?

  She controlled her imagination.

  An MP saluted the Major and enquired about his night, whilst looking her up-and-down. The inspection contained more lust than suspicion. She was safe - for the moment.

  The barrier opened and they walked arm-in-arm toward the villa. Amai could feel the MPs' eyes on her backside. Grinning, the Major guided her onto the villa's shrub enclosed path and she let out her breath.

  The two story villa sat between the Embassy and the eight-foot, concrete perimeter wall. Amai realized that if she were cornered in here, there would be nowhere to run.

  Now she was completely trapped.

  The villa's porch light made tinking sounds as fat bugs flew into the bulb.

  'Nice place,' Amai said, massaging his backside.

  He opened the door, and they went into a wood-paneled lounge-room which contained a large bookcase and four leather armchairs circling an antique coffee table.

  Amai pouted. 'Drink?' A drink was the only way she could administer the drug.

  He rubbed against her and she felt his big, semi-hard penis brush her leg through the fabric of his trousers. The Major went into another room, presumably in search of alcohol. Amai sat down in an armchair and noticed how weak her legs felt. She took off her heels and listened; coming through the ceiling was the faint sound of rocking bed springs.

  We're not alone, she thought.

  The sound stopped. Gentle feet hit the floor. Floorboards creaked lightly overhead. A toilet flushed. Water groaned in the pipe-work.

  Johnson called: 'Brandy okay?'

  'Perfect.'

  The urge to get out of the house and away from Johnson came on strong, but instead of running, she took the
vial of serum from her pocket, and hid it under curled fingers. The Major came back into the room, handed Amai a glass, and raised his. 'To diamonds and Amai. The two most beautiful things in the world.'

  Amai could smell the brandy. They clinked glasses and she was annoyed at herself for getting moist. She sipped the brandy, put her glass on the coffee table, and then took Johnson's out of his hand and put it beside hers.

  Johnson's big hand grabbed her waist and hauled her in. She kissed his mouth and worked her thumb and forefinger over the vial's rubber stopper. His large tongue filled her mouth. The stopper popped out and she emptied the vial into Johnson's brandy.

  Amai broke off the kiss and stepped back.

  Johnson unzipped his fly and his large, erect penis snapped free.

  It was going wrong. She snatched up her brandy, and said: 'To your cock.'

  Johnson picked up his glass. She downed hers.

  The phone rang. The shrill sound made Amai squeal.

  Johnson went into the adjoining room to answer it.

  A jet of fear went through Amai's body. Is it Nash? She thought. Or just the business call he was expecting?

  She heard the Major saying: 'Yes Sir . . . no Sir . . . okay . . . I understand. Yes Sir . . . will-do.' And the clunk of the receiver finding its cradle.

  The Major walked back into the lounge. He looked like he had just been told his mother had died.

  Amai's saliva thickened. Oh no.

  His eyes went to the necklace, contouring the soft skin of her throat, and he sneered.

  Was it Nash? She thought.

  'So you're a spy,' he said. 'Well I'll be goddamned.' He knocked back his brandy. 'You were wasting your time - I couldn't have told you anything of value.'

  For Amai, it was all happening too fast. I'm caught, she thought. He drank it.

  Then she realized that her life now depended on the drug. She looked from his glass to his face, and thought: How long?

  Amai sat back in the armchair as causally as she could. 'Who was on the phone?'

  'Military Intelligence. A Captain Nash is on his way here now.' He gave her a grim look. 'Damn shame. I was looking forward to tonight.'

  Then he put down his empty glass and came toward her.

  She folded her arms across her chest. 'No, Major.'

  He reached for her and she shoved him back with her feet.

  'You're a beautiful woman,' he said. 'But I have to put you under arrest.'

  Incredibly, he stopped like a dementia patient who had forgotten where or who he was. Amai looked into his eyes - they were glazed. He stood still for a moment, gently swaying.

  She jumped to her feet. 'Come. Sit down,' she said, and rotated him into the armchair.

  He dropped into the chair. 'I need the phone.'

  'You look ill. Sit here until you feel better.'

  'I feel . . . weird.'

  'Relax.'

  Amai watched the Major with relief as the Soviet drug took hold of him. His facial muscles slackened, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes wilted. He lay back in the chair. As the drug overpowered him fully, he looked like he didn't have a care in the world.

  Nash is coming.

  Amai wanted to run, but she had a job to do. 'Who are you and what are you doing in Saigon?'

  He gave her a dopy stare. 'I love you. You're so beautiful.'

  'Just answer everything I ask you, truthfully,' she said.

  'Okay.'

  'Who are you?' It seemed an odd question, but it was at the top of Triet's list.

  'Clark Miller.

  Amai was taken aback. She thought: What? And said: 'So you're not Major Randy Johnson?'

  'A cover.'

  Her surprise became shock. 'A cover for what?'

  'Security.'

  'Security for who?'

  'A private company - I don't know.'

  'Okay, from the start. What's this private company doing in Saigon?'

  'We're pinging for oil.' He pointed toward the coast. 'South China Sea. No one can know. Top-secret. You're gorgeous.'

  Amai felt deflated. She wasn't sure what Triet was expecting to get from Johnson, but this wasn't it.

  I'm doing my job, she thought. That's all he can ask. 'What oil?'

  'Ho Chi Minh's oil.'

  Amai had never heard of such a thing. You'd better tell me what's going on, Major - Mr. Miller.'

  His eyes drifted in and out of focus, like their batteries were dieing.

  'God you're so beautiful.'

  'C'mon Major, hurry-up, there's something I need to tell you, too.'

  'There's a shit-load of oil out there. Everyone knows it, but no one knows exactly where. We're using the cover of the war to find it. We can't let China, France, or Ho Chi Minh find out. If they did-' He made a low whistle.

  Amai found a ballpoint pen and a scrap of yellow paper and started scribbling notes. 'Go on,' she said. 'Details.'

  'Our survey ships drop explosives in the ocean and map the echoes. A gook fishing junk is snooping the survey ships. We can't be found out.'

  'Will the junk be attacked?'

  'A SEAL team will take it out at zero-five-hundred.'

  Amai jotted down the information. 'Where?'

  'The Callou Bank.'

  'That's somewhere out at sea?'

  With no warning, the Major jumped up as if suddenly unaffected by the drug. He came toward her and she took a step back, but she could see that his eyes were out of focus, his coordination gone. He put his arms around her neck. She shoved him back, but he was as unresponsive as a drunk.

  Then he fell on top of her. She collapsed under his weight; the back of her head hitting the floor; the air crushed from her lungs.

  Then she heard the worst possible sound: the screeching of brakes out at the guardhouse.

  Nash!

  Vehicle doors slammed. She struggled uselessly under the Major's bulk.

  I'm pinned.

  She heard voices on the path. I'm caught. The voices reached the front door. She writhed beneath Johnson.

  The front door banged open.

  Panic coursed through her muscles, giving them strength, and she forced herself out from under the unconscious man. She gripped the scrap of yellow paper between her fingers and ran from the room. A passage took her to the rear of the villa. She came to the back door and grappled with the knob.

  Boots drummed the floor behind her.

  She opened the door and went out, spending valuable seconds to quietly close it.

  Then she remembered her problem. The wall.

  She couldn't go back out through the night-gate. Even if she got past Nash, the MPs would gun her down. She looked up at the eight-feet of smooth concrete and knew that the wall couldn't be climbed. She turned right, tiptoed along the veranda, and slipped the yellow paper into her pants' pocket. Then she saw what she was looking for.

  A large tree stood between the house and the wall. She ran to its trunk and pulled herself up through the branches. Once level with the top of the wall, she crawled out onto a limb and peered down into Mac Dinh Chi, expecting to see soldiers.

  It looked clear.

  She looked back at the villa. From a second story window, a naked Vietnamese woman with small, perky breasts was watching her.

  Amai dropped to the top of the wall, lowered herself down the face, and then dropped to the pavement outside the Embassy grounds.

  She ran.

  * * *

  Captain Nash found Major Johnson's prone body on the living room floor.

  The big African American didn't appear to be breathing. Nash searched for Johnson's carotid pulse and felt a slow, weak throb against his fingertips. 'He's alive.'

  Beside him, Mancini picked up something from the floor and held between his thumb and index finger. Nash looked closer. Mancini held the crushed remains of a tiny glass tube.

  Nash slapped the floor. 'She's drugged him, Goddamn it. Search the place from top to bottom. She can't be far.'

  Mancini we
nt away. Some MPs came in.

  Nash knelt beside the unconscious Major. 'She's done it to me again,' he screamed, slamming his hand repeatedly against the polished timber floorboards.

  33

  December 28, 0051

  Phu Tho, Saigon

  10°45'58.67"N 106°39'42.19""E

  Amai ran through the dark and quiet streets, toward Triet's headquarters.

  She needed Triet's protection; the story about the Navy SEAL's attacking the junk would justify coming in the night.

  He will want to warn the junk, she thought.

  She ran up to Triet's building. The Viet Cong guards recognized her and took her inside. She felt safer. A teenage boy led her to a small back room where Triet was sitting at a desk. Amai wasn't surprised to find him awake - usually he took only a couple of hours sleep around four in the morning.

  Triet looked up. 'What's wrong?'

  Amai quickly relayed the evening's events, and then handed Triet the hard won scrap of yellow paper.

  For several minutes he studied her scribble, his fingers tapping his lip, saying nothing. His eyes lifted off the paper, locked hers for a second, and then returned to the page.

  'It's not what you expected, Amai said. 'But the junk can be saved.'

  When Triet spoke his voice was barely controlled rage: 'You want to side with Americans - then you should know what they are capable of.'

  Amai felt instantly paralyzed.

  'To beat the French,' Triet continued. 'We took a massive shipment of weapons from America . . . free-of-charge. Without them we would not have won at Dien Bien Phu.' He looked at her. 'Now they want their payment. Now they want our oil.'

  'But America was on the French side.'

  'Were they?'

  'They were supplying the French with weapons.'

  'Exactly,' Triet said. 'But why would they want the French here, sitting on all this oil?'

  Amai didn't really understand. 'Let me get this right. The Americans want our oil as payment for the weapons they gave us to beat the French?'

  Triet's face hardened. 'That was the deal. Ho Chi Minh went back on his word. Now we are at war.'

  Amai felt insignificant; there was a bigger picture here - one that had been kept from her.

  Triet went on: 'The fishing junk that the Major spoke of is ours. It's equipped with high-tech Soviet sonar, and has been shadowing the American survey ships, recording the locations of the oil deposits. Our coast holds as much oil as the Middle-East - the capitalists won't stop the war until they know where every last barrel lies.' He clenched his fists. 'But the Americans only want to sit on our oil. Control the flow control the price. They want to trickle it out to maximize their profits, sucking the life out of every economy on Earth.' He looked directly into her eyes. 'Still like Americans?'