The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  “Broke mouth?”

  “Răng,” she says, nodding.

  “Teeth,” Smith says.

  “Cô thể một hoặc hai,” the woman adds.

  “She only has a few teeth left,” Smith translates.

  “Look at the picture again,” I say. “A long time ago she was pretty.”

  She looks again and shrugs. “Okay. Maybe.”

  “It has to be her,” Smith says. “Who else could it be?”

  “It’s still not enough,” I say. “We need DNA, at least. Maybe a photo of her. Ask her if the woman left anything here, maybe some hair on a brush. Or did she drink from a can? Anything?”

  Smith asks her. She shrugs again and shakes her head.

  “Ask her if she can go to Cuy Hoa for us and bring something back. Tell her we’ll pay her.”

  Smith asks the woman.

  “No go!” she shouts in English. “No! No! Không thể!” She starts to cry. “Bịnh cùi! Bịnh cùi!”

  “Leprosy,” Smith translates. “She won’t go near the place.”

  “Okay, maybe we don’t need DNA,” I say. “We know the general area where she is now. Maybe that’s enough leverage on Hoffman. Enough to threaten the government about going public. They’ll have to do something then. They’ll have to.”

  “Sure,” Smith says sarcastically. “Then it’ll be time for you to go home.”

  I motion toward the woman, Mai. “Ask her if there’s anything else she can tell us.”

  Smith translates and the woman composes herself.

  “I give her clothes,” she says in English. “I give meat. She cry when she taste. I try give milk. But she sick. Eat too much. Get sick.”

  I nod as I reach into my pocket for some money. American dollars. She looks away from me as she reaches for it.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  As I stand, she looks up at me. “Maybe American soldier come back fight again,” she says. “Communist very bad. No person like. Even VC no like communists now. You think American soldier come back?”

  “Can’t say,” I tell her, reluctantly.

  “Why all American leave?” she demands.

  I shake my head. “Long story,” I reply softly. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “I say all,” she answers. “Now go. Please.” She gets up quickly, opens the door, and checks the alley. “Go,” she says again, waving her hands in the air.

  We file out. Behind me, I hear the woman say, “Tell America bring back many soldier. Come fight.”

  There’s no need for me to answer. I don’t want to tell her that the only Americans coming back are already here.

  56

  SUNFLOWERS HOTEL, QUI NHON

  JANUARY 20, 2006

  MORE RUSTLING, AND I spin around in the direction of the noise. I’m still seeing double as I move farther down the ditch. I wipe the blood from my nose and eye. I put the M16 against my shoulder. My broken fingers are frozen in a claw-shape. I grab the fingers with my left hand and yank as hard as I can. They crunch, and finally straighten, but they’re still too swollen to fit through the trigger guard.

  I shift the rifle to the other shoulder, and finger the trigger with my left hand. I look down the barrel and close one eye. I see nothing, but I fire anyway, my body on molecular alert. I drop the clip out and shove in another with the palm of my broken hand, then sight down the barrel again; and now there are two of them crawling forward, and two more crouching low as they advance. More steps along the ditch, and I plant myself and fire; but I can’t see if I’ve hit anything. I move down even farther and keep looking.

  I hear the chopper then, overhead. ‘Bout time. ‘Bout fucking time.

  Now I hear Eddie, too. He’s screaming. I spin around. He’s not there. I scramble back along the ditch and nearly stand, trying to find him. A shot hits me like a sledgehammer. No pain at first, just raw shock as I tumble backward from the force of the bullet. I search for where I’ve been hit, a visual confirmation, and see blood pumping from where my upper arm is torn open. Then the burning starts, an inferno. Eddie is still screaming. I turn on my stomach. I can see him now. They are dragging him away. He’s conscious and struggling, kicking and flailing his arms. Screaming. I hear him again in my ear: You said you’d do it, Quintyn. We have a deal, man.

  Adrenaline takes over, focusing me. I crawl back to where Wilcox is, and with my good hand yank Wilcox’s leg in front of me. I rest the barrel in the groove of his ankle. They’re farther away now, and Eddie is still squirming against them. My hand is shaking. I close one eye. I take a breath and hold it. I try to steady the sights.

  On Eddie.

  I unlock the door to my hotel room and motion Towers to come inside. Smith follows behind him. Immediately I see a man on the balcony with his back to us. He’s looking out at the Qui Nhon beach. The man turns as we enter.

  “Forgot to tell you,” Smith says, behind me. “This is Jones. He’s the chauffeur.”

  Despite the night, the man is wearing aviator sunglasses that reflect the light from the overhead. He’s tall and thin, with iron gray hair. He has a bony nose and drawn cheeks. He’s wearing a light blue flight suit. He’s obviously some kind of pilot.

  “Had to come in like this,” Jones says unapologetically. “It’s not good to be seen with you. Nobody should know what we’re doing.”

  I can see myself in his glasses. “We’re not doing anything,” I inform him.

  He looks to Smith. “You Smith?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you two knew each other,” I say.

  “Yeah,” the man answers vaguely. He crosses the room in a slow, erect walk. He’s older than I am, maybe sixty-five, but he moves like a much younger man. The glasses make him look oddly bookish, half scholar and half spider. There’s a red stain on the side of his face, a ragged crescent. I think helicopter crash. I think fire.

  He nods toward me, but addresses Smith., “That’s him, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He looks soft.” The pilot continues to study me. “What happened to your nose?” he asks me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good,” I say.

  Smith turns to him. “We think she’s headed to a place called Cuy Hoa. And we’ve got company, with a forty-eight-hour lead on us.”

  He nods. “Which Cuy Hoa?”

  “The leper place,” Smith adds.

  “There’s two of ’em. An old one and a new one. New one is for tourists. Trinkets and shit. Then there’s the old leper place,” he continues, “and yeah, I’ve been over ’em both a couple of times. Old one looks like a broken-down villa with some strange colors. More remote. Everyone knows to stay clear of that area because of the disease.”

  Jones takes off his aviator glasses, squinting now in the room’s lights. He folds the glasses into his breast pocket, then turns toward me, keeping the strawberry stain just to the side. His brown eyes are tired but steady. His expression is grim, even desolate. There’s something boiling inside him.

  Smith tells him, “I tried to get the informant to go, but that’s out.”

  The pilot nods. “We’ll have to do it ourselves.”

  “Where’d you get a chopper?” I demand.

  “From a Jap outfit I work for. They dredge beaches over here for some sand or shit. I fly ’em in and out from the boat.”

  “Sand?”

  “Sand has silica,” Towers interjects, happy to be contributing. “And the purest sand is the best for computer chips. Must be pretty pure over here.”

  The pilot shakes his head. “Where’d you get him?”

  “Photographic memory, sir,” Towers explains. “You heat sand with carbon and it reacts with the oxygen, leaving pure silicon.”

  “The point is, can you land there?” Smith asks.

  “Land?” I say. “You’re not serious.”

  Jones unzips the front of his flight s
uit and retrieves a plastic relief map. He unfolds it and flattens it out on the bed. He points.

  “This is Vung Chua mountain,” he says, his finger on the right side of the map. “And see this strip of sand here, at the base of the mountain?”

  “Yeah,” Smith says.

  “It’s about a quarter mile wide and goes along the coast for miles. And here,” he says, pointing again, “is the new Cuy Hoa, just off the beach.” He drags his finger southward on the map. “And somewhere in here is the old Cuy Hoa, the original, mostly covered up.”

  “But can you land there?” Smith asks again.

  “Beaches might be too banked,” Jones replies. “Could be tough. We’ll find out when we get there.”

  I say, “So the plan is to just land and walk in and ask if anyone’s seen a woman who’s been missing for thirty years and who no one wants found.”

  The pilot ignores me. “The way I figure,” he says, “it’ll take at least five of us. I count me and you, Smith. And then you, Ames. And the boy here.”

  “Well, I’m out,” I tell them. “Towers is too. No way. You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Smith snorts. “No, we’re dedicated,” he corrects.

  “I thought you had a whole rescue outfit,” I say.

  Smith shrugs. “It’s sometimes like this. We get who we can and do what we can.”

  “But he said you’ll need five, at least.” I say.

  “We’ll fake it,” Smith replies, and bursts with a hacking laugh. “That’s Nam, isn’t it?”

  Jones says, “Okay, so it’s just the two of us. We’ll have to improvise.” He smiles thinly. “Improvise,” he says again, as if he likes the word.

  “But we’ll have to do a flyover first,” Smith says, “to learn what we can. That’d give you, Ames, a chance to scout the area. You might be able to get more data for the bureaucrats.” He laughs.

  My thoughts go to Julia. She said I’d get killed over here. Maybe she was right. I wish I could talk to her. I wish I could hold her.

  “I’m all right with one pass over the area,” I tell them. “Real casual like. Yeah, maybe I’ll get something additional to report.”

  Jones turns to Towers. “What do you say, son?”

  Towers’s face is nearly drained to white. He looks from Smith to me and back to Smith. He composes himself. “I think it’s dangerous sir. And illegal.”

  Smith bursts out in laughter. “Fuck, kid, the flyover is nothing. And nothing is illegal over here. The Vietnamese imprison our guys for decades, and we still pay them to make our Hawaiian shirts. They’re communists, but we barter with ’em to use Cam Rahn Bay for one of our Navy ports. The Vietnamese still shoot the Laotian communists, and they both shoot the Cambodian communists. Used to be clear-cut over here—communists and noncommunists. Now everybody wants to kill someone or sell them a fucking TV.” He laughs.

  “I’ve never done anything like this, sir. I’m really scared.”

  Smith nods as if he understands. “Feels good, don’t it?”

  “No, sir. It feels like I’m going to throw up. I mean, I want to help. I guess I’m just not much of a hero.”

  Jones smiles his approval. “That’s refreshing.” He puts his aviator glasses back on. “Besides, there’s only one way to do things here, son. And Ames here,” he nods in my direction, “he knows what it is. Do it directly. Rely on yourself. And hope for the best.”

  “But, sir, I just keep thinking this isn’t well planned.”

  Smith roars again, then scoffs. “So what are we gonna do, kid? Phone the Pentagon for some new satellite photos? Or maybe send in the Marines?”

  Jones calmly folds the map and puts it back in his pocket. He looks to Smith. “What about soldiers?” he asks.

  “We don’t know how many are after her,” Smith tells him. “I doubt they’ve got more than ARs.”

  “You doubt?” he snaps. “It’s not good to doubt.” He glares at Smith.

  “What do you have?” Smith asks him. “On the chopper.”

  “One 60-cal for the door and four M16s, just lightweight stuff. Not like Nam, but we got enough to make a racket. And maybe even keep us safe and sound. Any requests?”

  “Yeah,” I interject. “How about some sanity.”

  The pilot exhales through his nose and grins at me. “You’ve come to the wrong place for that, Ames.”

  “Obviously,” I reply.

  Smith turns to the pilot. “Tell me about the chopper.”

  “A Huey slick, a transporter, like the old days.” His mouth twitches up in a smile. “Except it’s powder blue. Real sweet looking. I’m almost embarrassed to be seen in it. It’s also got a Jap flag on it. That’ll make a good bull’s-eye for someone.” He looks to me. “You ever gunned at the door, Ames?”

  “No, and I’m not starting now.”

  “Okay,” the pilot agrees. “So, one flyover tomorrow, in the afternoon.” He addresses Smith. “Then you and me, we’ll head back at dusk. It’s the safest time. I can drop you out of earshot of the old village, and you can walk in before the light gets too bad. That’ll give you time to find her.”

  Jones considers a moment. “If you still haven’t found her by dark,” he adds, “you’ll have to follow the sounds. It’s harder to find someone at night, but easier for you to hide. I’ve got a radio for you, so if she’s there and you find her, or if she’s not there at all, you’ll just have to signal.”

  “It’s one in a thousand,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, I like the odds,” Jones says, chuckling. “Besides, everything starts out as a long shot, Ames.”

  “But even if she is there,” I argue, “and you find her, you’ve got no place to take her. You won’t have the fuel to make it to Thailand, and there’s only trouble in Saigon.”

  “If she’s there,” Jones says, annoyed, “and if we get her, we’ll take her to the Jap boat. It’s neutral. She’ll be safe on the boat unless the Viets make trouble for the Japs.” He turns to Towers. “You haven’t said if you’re in for the flyover.”

  “He’ll think about it,” I answer for him, then motion to Towers. “Let’s take a walk.”

  The air is warm and thick in its stillness, as Towers and I walk along the beach and away from the hotel. It’s past midnight. Skinny palms line the way. I think of Alec back at Section One, how he’d kill to have a chance to set the real record straight. To expose the generals and the politicians. Then the country would listen about the ones we deserted.

  My mind shifts to the eleven that the Vietnamese are still holding in Laos. If they are there at all. If Smith was telling the truth in the first place.

  I stop walking and point south along the coast. “She could be right there, Jodee. Thirty, maybe forty miles down this beach. We’re that close.”

  Towers looks down at the sand.

  “The flyover shouldn’t be risky,” I tell him. “No need for you to chance it, though. It’s not your fight.”

  “It’s not yours either, sir.”

  Ready?

  “You’re wrong there. It is mine. And the others’. If she’s there, she’s been waiting longer than you’ve been alive, Jodee. And no one’s bothered to look for her yet.”

  “But nobody knew, sir.”

  “Right.”

  We approach a shirtless fisherman with dark skin squatting next to his boat. He eyes us silently, and then, realizing we’re Americans, he sticks his thumb into the air in a sign of support and says something we can’t understand. I nod my thanks to him. We continue on.

  “I don’t have much training,” Towers says. “I like dealing in facts, like science and biology-type things. Not too much action, sir. Just facts. They’re easy.”

  “Facts change,” I tell him.

  “No, sir. They’re facts.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “Around the government, they change,” I say. “Or get classified, or discredited. Or disappear.”

  “I guess so, sir.”

  “It’s just a flyover
, Jodee. Just scouting the area, nothing more.”

  “But why risk even that, sir? You’ve got a wife now.”

  “I guess it’s because the facts keep disappearing. Everybody wants the war to be over so bad that they’ll do whatever they have to to make it seem like it’s over. Back in the States, I’m helpless. Here, it’s different. Even just a flyover, maybe I’ll get more information. At least that’s doing something.”

  We walk in silence for a time. I can hear the gentle lapping of the water on the shore. I wonder how many thousands of years it’s been making that sound.

  Towers clears his throat and says, “I’ll go too, sir. But I’m scared.”

  “It’s okay to be scared,” I say. “And if you change your mind, you can withdraw, Jodee. But it’s only a flyover, is all.”

  “I won’t back out, sir.”

  “I didn’t say ‘back out.’ I said ‘withdraw.’ It’s an honorable military maneuver.”

  Towers seems to be considering this, then says, “But I don’t understand those two men. If going in to get her is such a long shot, how come they’d risk it?”

  “They think the North Vietnamese still owe,” I tell him.

  “Then they’re not stable.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Sir, do you think the North Vietnamese still owe?”

  I face him. “Everybody owes,” I answer. “Everybody.”

  57

  QUI NHON CITY

  JANUARY 21, 2006, 10:30 A.M.

  MY HANDS ARE STILL shaking, and I can’t steady the weapon. I inhale and hold my breath. My hands calm. But still I don’t fire.

  And then I don’t see Eddie anymore.

  When I awaken, it’s well into the morning. I rouse Towers. We eat and then head out.

  It’s over a hundred degrees as we walk in single file along the sandy shoulder of the coastal road. Peasants on bicycles pass by, as well as city dwellers on cheap Hondas and the occasional soldiers in light military trucks. We’re heading to the airfield.

  “I feel like everyone is looking at us, sir,” Towers says.

  “They are,” I reply. “But we’re just American tourists to them, is all. They haven’t a clue. No idea at all.”