by Peter Gilboy
I feel the sweat pouring from under my arms and over my chest. I hope it’s just the heat. I slip off my glasses and wipe the side of my face on my shoulder.
A little farther on we cross the road to an abandoned airfield. At the far end of the landing strip sits the powder blue helicopter, waiting. On the hull of the craft is the Japanese insignia, a bright red spot over a circular white background. Jones was right. It’s a huge bull’s-eye.
We get closer, and I see that the cargo door is wide open. Two men are sitting in the doorway. We approach, and Smith slides out and leans against the hull, his arms crossed. He’s in full jungle fatigues and boots. His fatigues are loosely fit, but I see the bulge below his left calf.
The thin, gray-haired pilot is still in his blue flight suit and wearing the reflecting glasses. His feet dangle out the door as he examines a long-barreled Smith and Wesson, a .38, in his hand. The strawberry mark on his face is much brighter in the heat.
Jones looks up at us as he spins the cylinder of the .38. He aims it toward the distant mountain, then brings it down to his lap. “Keeps me warm at night,” he says. He slips it into a shoulder holster, slides from the cargo door, and reaches for an oversized OD trunk. He pulls it from the back of the cargo area to the lip of the cargo door, then flips open the trunk and steps back for me to see. It’s an assortment of M16s, camouflage fatigues, knives, machetes, flares, field binoculars, and other military paraphernalia.
“Looks like the war,” I say to the pilot.
“I’ve been collecting these since then,” he replies. “We’ve got a .30-cal, too.” He points to the rear of the cargo floor. “You sure you know how to use it, Ames?”
“Won’t have to,” I tell him. “I’m here for recon only. We’ll make a pass over the area, look around. Learn what I can.”
The pilot motions, and we climb onboard. Smith and the pilot in front, Towers and I in the cargo area. The pilot turns and points to two radio-helmets by our feet, then to long radio cords on the cargo floor. We pull the helmets on and plug the cords into the helmets.
Jones’s voice is loud and clear. “Those are your radio switches,” he says, pointing to some controls on the floor. “Hit it with your foot when you want to talk.” He looks back at Towers. “You been in one of these before?” he asks.
“First time, sir. But I’m familiar with the UH-1. Lycoming T53 engine, ten thousand six hundred pounds, one hundred thirty-one miles per hour, range two hundred forty miles.”
“What’d you do, memorized that from a book?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“It just happened, sir.”
“Just don’t try to fly it, boy. You keep your hands off the controls. No matter what happens. You can’t learn to fly by reading about it.”
“I know, sir, too many things to coordinate at once.”
As the pilot goes through his flight check, Towers asks me, “Sir, is this like the ones you flew in back in the war?”
“We called this a slick,” I tell him. “No real weapons on it to speak of. The ones that we used in combat had armor and firepower—miniguns, rocket pods, even an M49 grenade launcher. These slicks are mules. But yeah, same type that we used, but without the armaments. But each one has its own personality.”
“Got that right,” the pilot volunteers. “This one is like a middle-aged woman. A bit slow. A bit ornery. But she’s been around the block and you can count on her when you really need her.”
With my radio-helmet in place, I hear Jones scan through a number of frequencies on the radio. “I’m searching for any excited talk,” he explains into our headsets. I listen too but hear only static and scattered talk. Nothing that seems urgent or out of the ordinary.
“We’re going to crank,” the pilot says into the radio as he slips on his leather gloves. “Ready?” He looks to Smith, who gives him a thumbs-up, then to me. I nod. He twists around to see Towers, who seems frozen in place.
The electric starter whirs shrilly. The rotors begin to move, first slowly, then accelerating until they are a blurred disk above us. The turbulence forces air through the side doors, cooling us off. I smell JP-4, like kerosene, and warm turbine exhaust. It’s so familiar that for an instant I’m launched backward in time to other liftoffs and being set down in hot zones. I return to the moment and move toward the front of the ship and scan the gauges. I wouldn’t know what I was looking at anyway, but I figure it’s best to look for flashing lights. There are none.
I watch as the Jones pulls up slowly on the collective pitch. The craft vibrates like it’s going to come apart. I remember that too.
We climb slowly, then thrust forward. I brace myself on the cargo door handle. In seconds the solid ground disappears beneath us and we’re accelerating over the rows of dilapidated huts edging the coastline.
We’re heading east, straight east, out over the South China Sea.
58
QUI NHON
JANUARY 21, 2006
THE CHOPPER IS OVER the trees now, but it can’t find me because of the dark. I want to fire a flare, light up the sky and the ones who took Eddie; maybe give the chopper a chance to find him; and give Eddie a chance, too. But that would give my position away. The chopper stays close for some time, searching for us, for me, and taking sporadic fire. Then it banks away, maybe for more fuel. I scramble to get some distance from the ditch. I find another low area and hide until daylight.
Then the chopper returns for us. For me.
The cargo doors are open wide on each side. I look down at a world textured by rippling green and gray water. Above are puffs of white clouds against a smooth blue canopy.
I step forward in the cargo area again and read the indicators over the pilot’s shoulder. Airspeed one hundred twenty-two knots. Vertical airspeed eighty-four feet per minute. Compass due east. It occurs to me that the vast sea below is a good place to dump Towers and me.
Jones looks over his shoulder at me, then clicks his radio switch on the cyclic control handle.
“I’ve only been over the area when coming back from the Jap ship,” he says through some static. “We’ll swing out over the ocean and then head back like I normally would. It’ll take some time, but it’s the safest way. We should get good recon for you then, Ames, and it won’t raise any eyebrows. Any objections? Over.”
“Let’s do it,” Smith says.
I glance over at Towers. He’s staring down fixedly at the green and gray water whipping by below us. His hands are shaking, or maybe it’s the vibration of the aircraft.
Fifteen minutes, and we approach a flat, rocky island miles out. White coral reefs are visible in the shallow waters.
The pilot points toward the horizon. “Can’t see the Jap ship from here,” he says. “But it’s out there. Too shallow in here.”
We descend almost to ground level, and it occurs to me again that this is a good dumping place. But the pilot rounds the island in a sharp bank that has Towers grabbing at a handle to hold on. We skim above the surface of the water for a few minutes, then climb to a higher altitude on a course that will bring us back just south of Qui Nhon.
“Get the field glasses,” the pilot says.
I pull two sets of binoculars from the trunk. I hand one to Towers.
A few minutes later, Jones reports, “When we get closer to the coastline you’ll see Qui Nhon off to our right. I’ll turn south to avoid Vung Chua mountain, and you’ll see the newer Cuy Hoa first—that tourist trap. I’ll trail the coast like I normally do. You’ll have to look hard to find the old Cuy Hoa even when we’re over it, gentlemen. It’s overgrown, so look close.”
Vung Chua mountain looms closer ahead, its lowest slopes set back a quarter mile or so from the coast. It looks to be about three thousand feet high.
The mountain soon fills the windshield, and the pilot slows the chopper. We’re at about two thousand feet.
The pilot banks south.
After a moment, he says,
“Looks like company.”
I see them too. Military trucks partially hidden under some trees. I scan the area with the field glasses, looking for any indication of Patricia Pavlik. Maybe a signal of some sort. A long shot. The longest of shots. And there’s nothing.
A mile south of the new Cuy Hoa we pass over a more wooded area, a densely packed grove of trees. Between the trees and other overgrowth I see some reflections and odd glitterings.
I move to the open cargo door and brace myself at the opening. “I can hardly see the village,” I say into the microphone. “But I see colors. Over.”
“Look ahead,” the pilot says into the radio. “See that tree line jutting out from the base of the mountain and across the sands?”
“I see it,” I say. It’s a hundred yards south of the village, with sand or grass around it.
“We need to establish a drop-off and pickup point for Smith on the other side of that,” the pilot says. “Out of earshot, but still not far from the village. Over.”
Smith breaks in. “Look further south,” he says. “There’s a small clearing just off the beach, a grassy area surrounded by palms. It’s about five clicks from the old village. Do you read?”
“Roger that,” the pilot says.
“Those palms going to be in the way?” Smith asks.
“Might cut some lumber on the way down,” the pilot answers. “I’ve seen worse. Over.”
We pass over the tree line, and then the clearing. A minute later we’re a mile farther south along the same strip of sand.
“We got to make another pass over the village,” I say. “Just a little slower. I need to scan the area again. Over.”
“Negative on that,” Smith interjects. “I got enough. We go over it again, we’ll raise suspicion. We’ll just come back at dusk. Over.”
Jones replies in an irritated voice. “Well, you boys make up your minds. I think we could go one more time without too much trouble. Over.”
The chopper banks again and takes us out over the water and toward the island, then swings back again, just a little lower this time. I search the area but see nothing different; just the new Cuy Hoa, then the high growth over the old village, like the jungle is trying to retake it. But even the jungle can’t conceal all the bright colors. Farther along I see the tree line jutting down to the sea. Then, the southern clearing just off the beach.
In minutes we’re out over the South China Sea again. “If they saw us,” the pilot reports, “they’ll think we’re heading back to the boat. No suspicions. I’ll go as far as the island again, then turn back to Qui Nhon. Smith, you and I will come back at dusk. Over.”
We approach the island, and the pilot slows, then hovers over it for a moment, facing out to the sea.
Then Eddie is in my ear: Do it, Quintyn! Land and do it! Do it now!
I feel it too, my gut telling me that now is the time, and that it can be done. It has to be done now.
Or maybe it’s just my wish list speaking.
Now, Quintyn! Now!
Or simply my imagination. Telling me that something can be done. That something has to be done. I hear that hum in my ear again.
Now!
Getting information won’t be enough. DNA can disappear. Anything we get can disappear. Eddie’s right. We have to go now. Now. Now! The hum in my ear increases, and I sense a kind of inevitably, coming here to this place at this time, me and Eddie. I think of Julia. You’ll get yourself fucking killed!
I feel something opening up inside me, a hole, and then those three days in the ditch and all the years after it are sliding into that hole.
I click the radio switch.
“We go now!” I shout. “We go now!”
Towers turns fully toward me. His eyes show that he doesn’t understand. Then he realizes what I’m saying and retches and throws up on the cargo floor. The pilot glances over his shoulder at me. His mouth is partially hidden by the microphone. “I’m not reading you, Ames. Over.”
“We go now!” I shout again.
“You mean back for another look? Over.”
“No! No! We go now! We go get her, now!”
Jones’s voice is calm. “That’s what I thought you meant,” he says. “But it’s too early. Over.”
“Now,” I shout again. “We have to go now!”
The pilot turns to Smith. “Whad’ya say? Over.”
“We got no choice but to wait for dusk. Safer then. Over.”
The pilot addresses Towers. “Whad’ya say, boy? We go or wait?”
Towers looks confused. He starts to say something into the mic but then retches again. He clears his throat and looks up.
“We go, sir,” he says in a clear voice. “We go.”
“If we do,” Jones says, “I’ll have to drop you and go back for more fuel.”
The pilot remains in a hover over the island as he thinks. He glances over his shoulder at me. I can’t see his eyes, but I sense his excitement. The strawberry mark on his cheek is flaring red. His gaunt face now seems like a skeletal mask with reflecting glasses.
“We took a vote,” he says calmly through the static. He has an odd smile on his face. “But this isn’t a democracy. I’m the captain of this ship.”
The helicopter slides slightly in its hover as the pilot thinks. I hear only static as we wait. He makes a slow pedal turn one hundred eighty degrees. The long Vietnam coast now lies before us on the horizon. The chopper drifts sideways like a jittery racehorse at the gate.
The pilot speaks into the mic then, a matter-of-fact voice.
“This is it,” he says. “Over.”
“No!” Smith shouts. “We have to wait!”
The helicopter vibrates wildly, then tilts forward and roars as we accelerate. In my headphones I hear a shrill laugh; the pilot’s. Towers throws up again. I grab a cargo handle and hold on.
In seconds, the water beneath us is a rushing blur.
59
CUY HOA BEACH
JANUARY 21, 2006
I WATCHED THE POWS get off the C-141 at Travis. Five hundred and ninety-one in all. It was a Monday, February 12, 1973. Kneeling in front of the TV, I waited for Eddie, waited for his smile, his crooked teeth, waited for anything about him. White men got off the plane. Black men. They each ran across the tarmac to their families. Wives and children ran out to those who were hobbled or on stretchers. It was thrilling. It was astonishing to finally see them come home.
No Eddie Cobb.
The coastline gets closer again, its white sands stretching out before us north and south. I can see the new Cuy Hoa, and now I notice a road curving down from Vung Chua mountain. It looks like a large van is making its way to the spot. Tourists. Amazing.
Smith sees them too. “Americans,” he says with a pitying laugh. “They want to say that they’ve been here. That they know what it’s like. Over.”
Tell him to shut up.
I say, “Focus on the clearing to the south. Is there any movement?”
Smith answers. “Palms moving around it. Don’t see anything else. But we gotta wait and come back at dusk, like I said. Over.”
No discussion as we get closer. In minutes we’re over the old Cuy Hoa with its colors gleaming through the overgrowth. We pass over the tree line next, and finally we approach the clearing, our landing zone. It’s not as banked as we thought, just a moderate slope to the sands. Couldn’t expect any better. And it’s out of earshot of the leper village.
The chopper descends low and fast over the palms. Towers grabs a cargo handle as if expecting a crash landing. But the chopper slows quickly, it’s nose flaring back. The pilot sets the skids down smoothly on the sand. He cuts the engine.
Smith leaps out before the main rotor stops. I’m off next and look back to see Jones motioning for Towers to get out and come around the front of the craft to the other side. Towers obeys and ducks under the spinning blades, his red hair flying wildly in the gale.
The rotors slow and then stop. It’s nearly silent the
n, just the soft eternal pulsing of the waters.
The clearing is circled by palm trees that are just off the beach. It might as well be a picture postcard. White sands strewn with tiny colored shells. Tall mangroves wave in the breeze. An assortment of palms sway lazily. The coastline slopes gently upward as it leaves the water and continues to the dense jungle wall behind us at the foot of Vung Chua mountain.
The pilot doesn’t move from his place in the chopper.
Smith unbuttons his camouflage pants. He urinates in the sand. Then he blows his nose on it. “That’s what I think of this country,” he tells us. “And all the fucking fish-breath dwarfs.”
He comes back to the chopper. I move to his side.
“What’s waiting for us, Smith?” I say.
“I expect it’s going to be like the old days,” he answers without turning toward me. “You should’ve stayed out of it, Ames.” He glances over at Towers and gives him a wink and a grin.
“What else?” I demand.
Smith smiles wryly. “That woman, maybe. Pavlik. I guess we’ll find out.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Her, of course. But shit, this is too good to miss, Ames. It’s my group therapy, a contest of balls, me and the dwarfs. They’re not bad fighters, you know. But I needed to get back here and play one more match. This is the land of sport. The whole fucking war was nothing but sport. And it was well coached from both sides.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was a great war.”
“And Jones is right,” Smith continues. “We’ll have to improvise. And probably bluff some, too. That’s part of the game, isn’t it?”
Smith seems to reflect a moment. “We should’ve waited ’til dusk, Ames. It’s going to be much harder now. But we’ll find her if she’s here. And take care of those fish-breaths too, while we’re at it. Maybe get some fingers to add to my souvenirs from the war.”
The pilot is listening from the cockpit. He shakes his head at Smith. “I still need to gas up,” the pilot calls to us. “Get your stuff off so I can get out of here.”