Under Attack

by Eric Meyer

  * * *

  “Where do we start?”

  I was driving Master Sergeant Ryder’s Toyota Corolla subcompact, heading into Saigon. Saigon was a vast city, and I looked sideways at Ray.

  “I don’t have a clue where we’ll find Bao Ninh, but we do have one advantage. We know he intends to assassinate the President, and that means if we get close to President Nguyen he can’t be far away.”

  “The Presidential Palace,” Le said from the rear seat, “You need to head for Nam Ky Khoi Nghia Street, District 1. But you will need to be careful, security is very heavy close to the Palace.”

  “Heavy for Bao Ninh as well. We need to scope this place out, and my idea is to put ourselves in his shoes. If we were planning a hit on the President, where would be the best place? I’m guessing when we have an answer to that question, we’ll be close to finding him.”

  Ray looked dubious. “There could be a dozen places he could use to make the hit. Finding the right one will be a gamble. Even assuming he stays in the Palace.”

  “He’ll stay,” Le said, “After the attempted assassination at Dong Ha, his security will be locked down tight. No, he’ll be in the Palace. Surrounded by a regiment of ARVN and Presidential guards.”

  I threaded through the heavy traffic that always seem to be present in Saigon. People on the move, cars, motorcycles, cyclos, everything that had wheels seemed to be on the streets at the same time, and the sidewalks were thronged with pedestrians. The traffic was a nightmare, and several times I came close to knocking a rider off his scooter, swerving to avoid them, and almost running over a pedestrian. It was like New York City gone wild.

  They’d parked tanks in front of the Presidential Palace, and platoons of troops were patrolling the grounds and the perimeter fence. If anyone were about to try to assassinate President Nguyen, they’d have their work cut out.

  “Seems tight to me,” Ray said, “They have more than enough troops to flush out an assassin.”

  I didn't reply. I was thinking about what he'd said. Sure, they had more than enough troops to protect the President, but recalling the attempt at Dong Ha, they'd used their own men disguised as ARVN. A group of soldiers was walking through the grounds, slowly, stopping every few moments, and for a couple of seconds they parted, and he was there. President Nguyen. Then the gap closed, and he was hidden inside a ring of his own troops.

  He goes for a twice daily walk in the grounds," Le explained, "But as you can see, he's surrounded by his own men. Any attempt on his life would be impossible. Nobody could get close, and a sniper couldn't get a clear shot."

  "What about that?" I pointed to a solid, stone built building next to the perimeter.

  "It houses the troops detailed to guard him. Every man is checked and double-checked, and I doubt anyone could use a fake identity. They’d spot it right away."

  I drove on, looking to the left and right. There were high buildings a sniper could use to take a shot inside the Palace grounds when he came out for his walk, but surrounded by so many guards, it was unlikely to succeed, other than to hit one of the soldiers acting as human shields. At the end of the street I turned and went back in the opposite direction. Still nothing, except a cruiser parked close to the side of the street, and the cops sitting inside gave us a long, hard look. They were looking for Vietcong, not round eyes, and they looked away. Searching for more likely targets.

  I parked a couple of streets away, and we did the same journey but this time on foot, like sightseers. No one took any notice of us. We were obviously military, accompanied by pretty Vietnamese girlfriends, and that was a normal sight in Saigon. No one bothered us, no one even looked hard at us, although we got a couple of curious looks because of our uniforms, which looked like they'd been through hell and back.

  "We need new duds," I said to Ray, "Looking like this, nobody will take us seriously."

  He raised his eyebrows. That means getting inside Tan Son Nhut, and I doubt we'd be lucky to get out the second time."

  "I was thinking about civilian clothes. Le and Lam are in plain clothes, and we're getting too many looks in these scruffy uniforms. How about we treat ourselves to a lightweight tropical suit each. Short-sleeved linen shirt and white canvas shoes." I grinned, "We'd look like colonial planters."

  The girls led us to a nearby tailor who had racks of off-the-peg cream linen suits, as well as everything else your average colonial needed to look the part. When we emerged, we were anonymous. We'd both selected styles with sufficient room for us to tuck the Colts in our waistbands, and the jackets were big enough to disguise the giveaway bulge. Apart from the guns, it felt good to be in clean new clothes, crisp cotton shirts, and lightweight tropical shoes instead of the scuffed, heavy boots we'd worn for so long. I felt like a millionaire strolling along a spacious boulevard with a pretty girl on my arm, and Ray’s grin suggested he felt the same way. We passed the Palace, and something stuck out when a vehicle arrived, a civilian car, and the two men inside were Westerners. The sentries gave them a quick once over but didn't even bother to check their documents.

  I looked at Ray, and he looked at me. "What do you think?"

  He shrugged. "We could get inside, that's always assuming our man is in there. He may be planning to use a long gun. There're places he could position himself near enough to the Palace to get in a shot."

  I shook my head. "Except for the guards that surround him. No, he'll get in close to make sure, and I'm betting he'll disguise himself as an ARVN soldier again." I pointed in the direction of the concrete building that housed the guard detail, "He's in there somewhere."

  We were strolling along slowly, trying not to look too conspicuous when a guy stepped in front of me. "Are you guys going to the Presidential reception this evening?"

  I gave him a guarded look. "Why do you ask?"

  He grinned. "Hey, there's no need to be tightlipped about it. We're all Americans here." He glanced at the girls, "Well, as good as. What are you, Embassy?"

  He was a cheerful, red-faced man, quite young in his mid-twenties, flabby and out of condition. I had him down as an Embassy staffer. I had an idea and decided to take a chance. "We can't say. It is confidential."

  His expression took on a knowing look, and he dropped his voice. "I guess you're Agency."

  "That's right. But we're not here, if you get my meaning. We're running extra security checks. I guess you heard about the attempted assassination up near the DMZ?"

  He looked around, as if a squad of Vietcong were about to seize him and beat information out of him. "I heard it on the grapevine, although nobody was supposed to know. So you'll be checking out the guests."

  "We'll be checking out everybody," I said, keeping my voice as low as his, "That includes the guard detail. The guys who tried to kill him were dressed as ARVN."

  He shook his head. "Jesus Christ, I didn't know that. Say, I'm Chuck Goodwin, assistant to the Trade Attaché. I mean, if there's anything I can do, let me know. I'm always happy to help the…" he looked around again in case the North Vietnamese had surrounded him with snoopers, "Agency."

  "There may be something you can do to help. Chuck, if there is an attempt on the President, we need to have an escape route ready to get him out of trouble fast. We could use someone to drive it through the gates, so we don't need to show our CIA identities. You can drive a limo?"

  His eyes widened. "Gee, you guys really are spooks. Sure, I can drive anything."

  "Keep it down and listen. Meet us outside the Embassy at 19.00. We'll have the car, and I want you to drive us in. They'll see a familiar face, and we may be able to keep our mission a secret. You never know who could be working with the assassin. It could even be the guys on the gate."

  He nodded, his expression serious and thoughtful. "Yeah, I see what you mean. That makes sense. Okay, I'll do it. But isn't 19.00 too early? The reception doesn't start until 20.30."

  I had to think quickly, and I came up with an answer to satisfy this would-be James Bond. "We wa
nt you to get familiar with the car, in case you need to use escape and evasion tactics."

  His eyes went even wider. "Gee, that'd be something. Okay, I'll be outside at 19.00."

  He walked away, and I noticed there was a spring in his step. We'd had a lucky break, and I had little doubt we'd be able to breach the formidable defenses of the Presidential Palace in the guise of guests at a reception. The next step was to find Bao Ninh.

  We spent the rest of the day in Saigon, and we ate in a French restaurant with eye-watering prices. I managed to withdraw the last of my savings from the bank and treated the girls to new dresses. The department store had a wide selection of makeup, and women who were expert and applying it. They went to work on the Van sisters, and when they emerged they wouldn't be out of place anywhere, especially in a high-level reception.

  The car was a bit more difficult, but Lam had dated a guy who owned a limousine that he used to chauffeur visiting VIPs, and she managed to wangle it out of him. It wasn't easy at first, until she pretended to agree to resume their relationship. She looked so gorgeous in her new dress and makeup to kill, he'd have handed over the keys to Fort Knox if she'd asked for them.

  We had everything, and I drove to the steps of the American Embassy at the appointed time. Chuck Goodwin was waiting for us. Sweating in an unsuitable tuxedo and bow tie, and if we looked like colonial planters, he looked like a bouncer at an upmarket restaurant.

  I climbed out of the passenger seat and gestured for him to get in. He drove away and took us on a tour of Saigon, including finding a stretch of open road where he could floor the gas pedal and pretend to be driving away from an armed pursuit.

  At fifteen minutes after eight, we reached the gates to the Palace, and there was a queue of vehicles to go in. Some were limos, and they only gave them a cursory glance, including ours. Chuck had his documents ready, but after a brief glance inside the vehicle to see Ho Chi Minh and Vo Nguyen Giap weren't riding inside, they waved us through. We were inside.

  He found space in the parking lot at the rear, refusing to hand the keys to a valet. As we drove around back, he whispered, "I'll make sure to keep an eye on the vehicle, just in case."

  "Yeah, you do that. You're doing well, Chuck."

  He grinned with satisfaction, and he was having the time of his life. He parked the vehicle, and we left him to start looking around. We had an advantage. We knew the face of the man we were looking for, and we went from room to room without seeing anyone who looked familiar. After that we strolled out into the grounds, checking out everybody, especially the soldiers. I was convinced if an attack came, it would come from the squad of men detailed to protect the President, for they would be closest to him. I looked from one surly face to another, and they all looked tense, all of them knowing what was at stake. The man who allowed a shooter to get near to Nguyen could say goodbye to his career and his pension, and probably his life.

  We found nothing.

  They'd set up marquees in the garden at the rear of the Palace, and white-coated waiters and young women in ao dais, were bringing around silver trays brimming with champagne flutes. We helped ourselves to drinks, as well as the tiny portions of food they constantly fed us on fragile porcelain plates. It felt good, wonderful to be enjoying such a glittering occasion, but we never saw the President. Occasionally, we'd see a tight knot of soldiers, and we assumed he'd be in the middle, but when I got close I couldn't spot our man. Several times Vietnamese approached us in plainclothes, and they gave us a quick once over before they moved on. Once again, they weren't looking for Americans. They were looking for a Vietnamese killer, and I was pretty certain they hadn't got a clue what he looked like.

  I strolled up to the front, across the manicured grass and reached the stone building. There was no one on the door, and while Ray and the girls kept watch, I strolled inside. It was empty. I went from room to room, looking for I don't know what. Maybe a Viet kneeling at a window with a sniper rifle fitted with a telescopic sight, searching for the target, but there was no one. They were all out, taking their guard duties seriously, and most of them would be keeping a tight knot of bodies around Nguyen. I strolled out, and I was running out of ideas. There was always the Palace, but the doors were closed, apart from a couple being used by the catering staff, and hard-faced ARVN soldiers guarded them.

  There's no sign of him," I murmured to Ray, "We may have made a mistake. It could be he's planning the hit somewhere else. Look at it; they even have tanks parked on the perimeter. There's no way anyone could get close."

  He grimaced. "I'm beginning to think the same thing. There's only one thing could get near him, and that's a tank. And they'd have to get past those tanks parked close to the fence."

  Something chimed in my brain, and I could have cursed myself for not realizing. "Tanks," I muttered, and they looked at me as if I was going crazy.

  "What about tanks?"

  "Ray, you're a genius. Don't you realize? You worked it out."

  "Worked what out?"

  "Like you said, there's only one way to get near him, and that's with a tank."

  "Yeah, but they have plenty of tanks out there. Even if someone tried to approach in a tank they'd be blasted to pieces."

  "Unless they're already here."

  We glanced at the tanks guarding the perimeter, a squadron of M48 Pattons, and they all looked like they had every right to be there. The same unit markings, the 3rd Armored Cavalry Squadron, and the commander of each tank had his head poked through the hatch and the turret. They were gazing around, keeping a wary eye out for trouble, all except one. The hatch in the turret was closed, yet as I looked at it I saw the periscope move. Someone was inside, and they were looking around. Why hadn't the commander opened his hatch and got a much better view out in the open? They weren't under attack, there was no reason to keep the armored vehicle buttoned down, and yet it was buttoned down. As if it was about to go into action. About to locate a target and…"

  "It's him! There, in the end tank."

  They followed the direction of my gaze, and it dawned on them this would be the perfect way to carry out the hit. They were inside an armored vehicle, equipped with a 90mm main gun, a Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun, and a further Browning M1919 .30 caliber. Thick, steel armor, nine inches on the front glacis, and they had enough firepower to devastate the Presidential party before anyone realized what was going on. And even then, when the other Pattons saw what was going on, they had the speed and maneuverability to make a quick getaway with a useful maximum speed of thirty miles an hour. Hurtling away through the crowded streets of Saigon, I could only begin to envisage the carnage as they scattered vehicles and pedestrians alike, and while the other Pattons were bound to pursue, how could they open fire? Knowing they'd kill substantial numbers of their own people.

  I didn't know how they'd managed to get hold of the tank, but it wasn't hard to work it out. Dressed in the correct uniforms, they could waylay the genuine crew, board the tank, and button down to remain unseen.

  He was in there. Bao Ninh, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Couldn't get to him, and in the time it would take for a wanted United States Warrant Officer to persuade the South Vietnamese security something was wrong, it would be all over. The President and his protective detail would be dead, and Bao Ninh would be speeding away on a journey of even more bloody carnage. But how do you stop a medium tank with Colt M1911s? The answer was we couldn’t. There was one way, and that was with another tank.

  “We need to talk to the crews of the other Pattons. Tell them what’s going down.”

  Le looked worried. “You think they’ll believe us?”

  "No. But we have to try."

  We strolled toward the line of tanks, bypassing the suspect vehicle, and we reached the other end. The commander, a captain looked down on us from the turret and smiled at the two girls, a good start.

  "Captain, do you speak English?"

  He replied, keeping his eyes on the girls.
I didn't blame him. They looked a picture in their new dresses, and the expertly applied makeup. "I speak English."

  "Sir, you have a problem."

  He jerked his gaze away from the girls and looked at me, his eyes wary. "A problem?"

  "The tank at the other end of the line. It's buttoned down."

  "Yes, I noticed."

  This was it, the time when either he'd believe me, and the President may survive, or he wouldn't, and the chances were we wouldn't survive.

  "I believe it's been taken over by enemies who plan to kill the President."

  He choked then, and I could see his eyes were wet with tears of mirth. "What is this, some kind of joke? Are you the cabaret?"

  "My name is Warrant Officer Carl Yeager. This is Sergeant Ray Massey, and these two girls work for the National Police. Van Le is a Sub-Inspector, and Van Lam is a constable. Le, tell him."

  She started to speak and stopped.

  The Captain was staring at Lam in surprise. "Lam? Is that really you?"

  "It's me."

  "You look so different."

  She managed to blush. "It's the makeup, is all."

  "No, no, it's more than that. I thought we'd, you know…"

  Her blush deepened. "I was just starting a new career in the police. It was a bad time, Xuan." She looked at us. "This is Ngo Xuan. We used to date."

  It was an amazing coincidence, and the best chance we had of convincing them. "Lam, talk to him. Tell him we're on the level, and tell him what's at stake."

  She talked at length in Vietnamese, and although he stayed good-humored, it was evident he wasn't too keen on risking everything by attacking what he assumed was his own tank on the say-so of a former girlfriend. In the end she gave up.

  "I'm sorry. He just can't accept that it could be happening."

  "Shit." I was wracking my brains, trying to work out another way to act, to do something. To save the life of the country's leader, and to spare the nation the agonies that would follow. I came up with an idea, an act of total desperation, but there was nothing else.