Blood & Tacos #2

by Ray Banks

  And then we have Barrington, or Barry as he likes to be called, burning the midnight oil as he seduces a beautiful woman, meets with financial leaders, and shows off his mariner and astronomy skills while "watching" Trask gather secret intel. Then, just when you’re about to give up on Barrington’s peacemaker ideals and savior-like qualities, he bursts onto the scene with a .50-caliber machine gun attached to his Lear jet (not a euphemism … although that might have made the book more interesting) and sinks the very ship that’s about to bring war to two nations.

  That last scene … made me giggle.

  But it also reminded me why I liked playing the role of Charlie Townsend so much. Playing the damsel in distress has never been my kind of thing. But playing the role of the character that doesn’t really do anything doesn’t sound like much fun anymore, either. I mean, really. Other than giving out assignments, what did Charlie bring to the team? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

  So, flash forward some thirty years or so later when I’ve been given this treasured book to read, and I’m thinking Barrington Hughes-Bradford would have been a pretty fun role to play, too. I mean, really, Barry is James Bond sexy with a ’70s porn–style look. He’s like Charlie Townsend, only his Angels are all men. He’s giving the orders and busting a few moves along the way. Something tells me that even without reading the other books in this series; Barrington Hughes-Bradford always saves the day. In the words of my friend Kari, Barrington is the perfect "man-whore, puppet-master protagonist."

  So, if we dump the porn-star looks for a sexy femme fatale style, keep the male Angels, and switch the cocktails to Coca-Cola Classic with extra ice … you’ve got another win-win situation for a girl like me, ’cause I’ve always wanted to be a puppet master. Haven’t you?

  WANTED: MALE ANGELS WITH SOLID SIX PACKS (of Coke, that is) *wink wink*

  I probably wouldn’t go out of my way to recommend this series, but even with its flaws and over-the-top storyline, I found this book in the series rather entertaining, even comical at times. Would I read the other books in the series? Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’m curious …

  Sabrina Ogden is a grasshopper by day, wife, mother to two adorable beagles, and a lover of books and dreaming. She spends her free time reading, playing on twitter, and editing for the online web-zine Shotgun Honey. You can find her sharing personal stories and writing book reviews at myfriendscallmekate.com.

  A.R.V.N. WAR CHRONICLES: Never Say Good Night in Saigon

  By Greg Peppard, Jr., 1st Sgt., US Army (Ret.)

  (discovered by Jimmy Callaway)

  San Diego, California, is a big military town, and lifelong resident JIMMY CALLAWAY has met many retired soldiers in his time. Greg Peppard, a grizzled former Army sergeant, often frequented the neighborhood convenience store where Callaway worked for a number of years. Over time, a grudging friendship grew out of a shared fondness for Lee Van Cleef movies. It turns out Peppard had more than a few stories published—stories he based on his tours in Vietnam during the final ten years of his military service, from 1963 to 1973. His work never cracked the big men’s adventure market, appearing in such forgettable titles as Man Digest for Men, General Macho, and Highlights for Green Berets. This story is one Peppard never managed to sell before he quit writing altogether and bought a small hardware store.

  Mr. Callaway would like to thank Matthew C. Funk and Johnny Shaw for their assistance in restoring this piece to a publishable form.

  It was 3 a.m. and the VAA Nightclub was enjoying another quiet evening. The rain pattered its soft staccato on the tin roof, accompanied by the dribble-drop of the leaky patches in the ceiling into old gourds. Mama Tu had gotten the children to sleep around midnight and allowed herself to doze in her chair.

  But just as she was nodding off, Yen awoke, fussing in her crib. Mama Tu gripped the worn bamboo arms of her chair and hoisted her tiny, wrinkled form up and over to the infant. It wasn’t just that Yen was the fussiest baby she had seen in all her years, it was that she was the saddest. As if the oddly rounded eyes had glimpsed her future and that of her homeland. It pulled at a place deep inside Mama Tu every time the baby girl looked at her.

  Wrapping the child in her blankets, Mama Tu picked her up. As she walked the baby around the room, she sang softly:

  But in Saigon, peace never lasted for long. Just as the lines in the baby’s tiny forehead softened into slumber, a big man wearing a burlap sack for a mask kicked in the front door and aimed an AK-47 at Mama Tu. Two others followed, hurriedly closing the door behind them. They were also armed and masked—one an even bigger man, and the other a skinny young woman.

  Yen did not rouse from her sleep.

  Xuan Loc was forty miles north of MACV, but it took Corporal Mathes nearly an hour to get there. He’d learned to drive on the freeways of Los Angeles, but that was nothing compared to Saigon during rainy season. The greasy rain slid down in lazy sheets. Motor scooters and Renaults slalomed through the traffic, horns bleating and braying. It was a little easier going once outside city limits, and Mathes finally arrived at III Corps and met with Major Le.

  "Bonjour, Corporal," said the little major as he returned Mathes’ salute. "And how may I be of service to the United States Army today?"

  Mathes frowned. "I’m sorry, sir, didn’t Major Taylor call your office?"

  Major Le cleared his throat. "And how may I be of service to the United States Army today?"

  Mathes’ frowned deepened, and then it hit him. He retrieved the transfer papers Major Taylor had given him: yesterday’s copy of Le Courrier du Vietnam wrapped around five American twenty-dollar bills.

  Major Le took the papers and smiled. "Please follow me, Corporal."

  Mathes had been in-country for a year, and he still couldn’t get used to these ARVN officers, their accents more French than Vietnamese. But he saluted properly and followed Le to a group of Quonset huts. Two ARVN privates came to attention on their arrival. They held their M-16s to the side, order arms position. Le barked at them in Vietnamese, and one of the privates opened the padlock on the door.

  "Sergeant Tinh!" Le shouted in English. "Front and center!"

  In the shadows of the hut, through the drizzly rain in his face, Mathes could see several figures stirring from various positions of confinement. And then through the door came the meanest-looking gook Mathes had ever seen.

  Like a lot of Vietnamese, he was a little guy, but he stood as though he were Atlas, as though he held up the world without breaking a sweat. His face looked carved from stone—hooded almond eyes and a scar across his brow gave him a permanent scowl. His wide shoulders strained at the dingy tigerstripe cammies. His biceps bulged at the sleeves. His hands were as cracked and dirty as his combat boots. He blinked at the gray light of day, and his eyes landed on Mathes.

  "Got a cigarette, Joe?" he said.

  "Sergeant Tinh," Major Le said, "I am temporarily releasing you into the custody of Corporal Mathes. Our American allies have a situation they feel you are well suited to handle. Upon completion of this mission, you are to return at once to serve the remainder of your sentence. Is that clear?"

  Tinh grunted. "Mm. Yes, sir."

  Le smiled at Mathes. "He is, as you say, all yours, Corporal. Please extend my regards to Major Taylor."

  Mathes saluted again, doing his best not to show his dislike for this little ratfuck officer. Tinh caught his eye and winked.

  In the jeep, Mathes handed Tinh a pack of Luckies and matches, both wrapped in cellophane. Tinh carefully unwrapped them, poked a nail into the corner of his mouth, and lit it, striking the match with his thumbnail, his hand protecting the flame from the wet.

  "Mm," he said, "makes a fine tobacco. Thanks, Joe."

  "Mathes."

  "Thanks, Mathes."

  "Had you in the stockade, huh?"

  Tinh raised his eyebrows. "Yep."

  "What for?"

  Tinh shrugged. "Don’t know. Could be anything. I was drunk."

&n
bsp; Mathes grinned as he fought to keep the Jeep in the flooded ruts of the dirt road. When Tinh tried to hand back the smokes, Mathes waved him off.

  Major Taylor had gotten bored with lobbing darts at the picture of Henry Cabot Lodge. So now Sergeant Kitchen stood in front of the dartboard, doing his best to stand completely at attention.

  "Uh, sir?" he said.

  Major Taylor closed one eye, aimed. "Hold it right there." Taylor released the dart and reformed the part in Kitchen’s hair. "Excellent. Yes, Sergeant, what is it?"

  "Sir, I don’t mean to, you know…I just don’t understand why this Tinh, sir? Why bring a gook in on American business?"

  "Tell me, Sergeant. You’re gunning for the OCS, are you not?"

  Kitchen stiffened a bit, allowed a small smile. "Yes, sir."

  "Well, one thing I can tell you," Taylor said, flinging another dart. It hit the wall just past Kitchen’s ear. "Explaining yourself to non-coms is not a habit you want to get into."

  "Yes, sir."

  "On the other hand," Taylor said, "I am bored out of my mind right now. Sergeant, whatever your feelings about this mission, it’s simply not something we can ignore and hope will go away. It calls for action, not advice."

  "All due respect, sir, but we’re all pretty bored around here."

  "Today, yes, but that will change any minute, if it hasn’t already. That fucking idiot Diem had to go get himself assassinated. And now I hear the reds have made the Gulf of Tonkin into a practice range. If the White House has its way, this war will get hot overnight."

  "That’s great news, sir!"

  "Yes, well, officially, I applaud your enthusiasm, Sergeant."

  "Thank you, sir!"

  "Unofficially, I think you are a braying jackass. I may be bored keeping MACV fully stocked with paper clips, but I didn’t join this man’s army to fight phantom commies in canopy jungle. If we go to war, fine, but I see no reason to hurry it along."

  "Can’t we get SOG to take care of this, sir? Isn’t this their specialty?"

  "Indeed it is, but without a handwritten invitation from LBJ, the only thing the Studies and Observations Group will be studying and observing is as much pussy as they can handle. Which is quite a bit, to hear them tell it." Major Taylor leaned back in his chair and hurled a dart into the drop-tile ceiling. It took its place with four or five others, along with a few sharpened pencils.

  "So we go to ARVN," Kitchen said.

  "And so we go to ARVN. Let them get what action they can before our Marines come over and hog all the enemy rounds."

  "But this Tinh, sir, he’s—he’s not even an officer."

  "Don’t be a complete idiot, Sergeant. ARVN’s officers run their army like Sergeant Bilko ran his motor pool. They’ll rob you blind, and then steal your smoked spectacles. The enlisted men are the only ones worth a shit, and Sergeant Son Tinh is better equipped for this sort of thing than even an American officer, present company very much included. Any more questions?"

  "No, sir."

  "Good. Now, hold perfectly still …"

  Mathes burst into the room, and Taylor’s dart landed point-first in Kitchen’s knee. Kitchen bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. Mathes had to clench his own fists to keep from laughing.

  "Major Taylor, sir!" Mathes said in loud, shaky voice. Kitchen stared daggers at him. "Reporting with Sergeant Tinh as ordered, sir!"

  "Very good. Sergeant Tinh," Taylor said, returning their salute, "I trust all is well in the 18th?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Lovely. At ease. Sergeant Tinh, as I’m sure you’re aware, we have quite a situation on our hands."

  Mathes glanced at Kitchen, the dart in his knee, sweat beading on his forehead. When Taylor wasn’t looking, Kitchen plucked the dart from his flesh, visibly blanching at the sight of blood on the tip. A strangled giggle escaped from Mathes.

  Taylor turned quickly. "Is there something funny, Corporal Mathes?"

  "Sir, no, sir!" He kept his eyes on a corner of the ceiling.

  "As I was saying, Sergeant Tinh," Taylor said, "we have a situation here and I feel you’re the only man I can turn to."

  "Mm. Thank you, sir."

  "Yes, well, don’t thank me yet. Tell me, Sergeant, have you ever heard of the Vietnam AmerAsian Nightclub?"

  Thuy was trying to think. He allowed his fists to unclench and focused inward, on the formations therein. Once again, he felt serenity and tranquility in his grasp, if only those bastard mongrels would shut the fuck up.

  Fists clenched again, Thuy rose from his mat and stomped over to the bastard pen, where the mongrels mewled and whimpered. Father had always told him that he was the most impatient, irresponsible boy he’d ever seen—could never wait for anything, but always late for everything. But even as a young whelp, he could not possibly have made this much noise!

  "Quiet!" he shouted, his long mustache trembling past his chin. "You have been fed! There will be no more!"

  My poked her head up through the trap door in the far corner. A smudge of dust lay above one thin eyebrow. "Thuy!" she said. "Why do you shout at them? They cannot understand you."

  "They will learn!" Thuy said. "Yes, they will learn their true purpose if I have to beat it into them!"

  My climbed into the room and shook her dirty slippers off, revealing her delicate feet. As she approached the pen, a troubled look disturbed her features. "Oh," she said, sniffing at the air, "no wonder they’re upset. Don’t you smell that?"

  "All I smell is the Yankee blood in these … mutants."

  "They need to be changed," My said, retrieving clean diapers from the bureau, some old safety pins from the glass jar atop it. "Go back to your meditations, Thuy. I will change them myself."

  "Sergeant Tinh," Taylor said, "as you know, the American military has had a presence in your country for some time, back when your people were fighting the French. Though our government has been careful to stress that we are not here as combat troops, that does not preclude some engagement with the natives. Do you understand?"

  "No, sir."

  "Right. Well, Sergeant, when men—soldiers—are overseas, it does not take long before they miss the comforts of home."

  "Mm. Boom-boom."

  Mathes dug his nails into his palms. In nine weeks of Basic, he never cracked once, and here he was going to lose it in front of a Major, a First Sergeant, and an ARVN Sergeant on a top-secret mission. Fuck this country.

  "Yes," Taylor said, clearing his throat, "boom-boom. And boom-boom, as history has shown us, leads to children." The Major actually began to redden a bit. "Now, Sergeant, a man cannot simply bring home a child at the end of his tour. The wife and kids might not take well to a new baby brother or sister."

  "Bui doi," Tinh said.

  "Yes, I believe that’s the native phrase. Not as harsh as the English—"

  "Bastards," snarled Sergeant Kitchen.

  "Thank you, Sergeant. Now, lest you think all Americans heartless, Sergeant Tinh, there has been a sort of enterprise enacted to look after these children, to try to keep them off the streets."

  "Mm. This nightclub."

  "Yes. Vietnam AmerAsians is the quaint label our government gave these little bundles of joy. Despite whatever monetary support their fathers see fit to part with, their mothers often must continue to work, as waitresses, bar mistresses—"

  "Whores," said Kitchen.

  "Sergeant Kitchen, do you want to take over this briefing?"

  "Uh, no, sir, I—"

  "The VAA Nightclub," Taylor went on, "is the home of an old mama-san who watches over these infants. A Mrs. … what’s the name again, Sergeant Bigmouth?"

  Mathes actually whimpered a bit in the back of his throat.

  "Tu, sir," Kitchen said. "Mama Tu, the men call her. Sir."

  "Yes, and unfortunately, Sergeant Tinh, these children have just last night been kidnapped from under Mama Tu’s watchful eyes."

  "How many?" said Tinh.

  "Three boys and a girl.
We received word that they are being held for ransom at $10,000 apiece. Even if we had the money, which we don’t, there is little doubt these children would not be returned alive."

  "Yes, sir. You want me to find these b?i d?i and bring them back alive."

  "Can you do it, Sergeant? We need it done quietly and very, very quickly."

  "Yes, sir."

  Taylor smiled down at him. "Very well. We have picked the right man for this job. Dismissed."

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Sergeant Kitchen."

  Mathes dared to take his eyes from the ceiling and saw Kitchen glaring at him as he spoke. Glaring and grinning. "Sir, as grateful as I’m sure we all are for Sergeant Tinh’s help, perhaps it would be wise to send one of our men along with him." He paused, and Mathes could have sworn he was about to lick his lips. "In a purely advisory capacity, of course."

  My hummed as she tended the cookfire, boiling some milk. A loose strand of hair hung in her face and she brushed it back behind her ear. Thuy felt the foolish yearning for her he’d felt when they were but children. He hurriedly pushed it away. "Woman!" he said. "Where is my supper? Must I wait until these brats are seen to?"

  "They’ll be awake soon, Thuy," she said softly. "Even sooner if you don’t keep your voice down."

  "This is my home! I’ll speak as I please."

  "It was your idea to bring these children here," My said. "Your glorious five-day plan."

  "I will not be mocked, woman," Thuy said as he strode towards her. "Not even by you."

  Hai ran into the hut. "Sir! The Americans have enlisted Son Tinh, sir! Just as you said they would, sir!" Hai’s broad grin and lazy right eye made him look more like a stupid kid than usual.

  Thuy allowed himself a smile. "Excellent news, comrade. Assure Le he will be justly recompensed."