The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  I grab the machete and fling it away. I tear a piece of cloth from her sleeve and fasten a tourniquet below her knee. Then I spread the chain out on the floor and ready the M16. Three shots, and the bullets ricochet into the wall. The chain is only gouged. I position Lieutenant Pavlik to the side, switch the weapon to automatic, and fire a long burst, emptying the clip. The chain splinters and then breaks free.

  Outside, the firing continues as Patricia stares down at her freed leg. Ignoring the blood that’s still running, she swings it back and forth as if proving that it’s free. She turns to me.

  “Go?” she whispers. “Go home?” Her eyes tear. “Go America?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “Go America.”

  I still have to get her away from the cottage and the village alive, then back to the landing zone at the clearing. I also have to deal with Towers. There’s nothing more fearful than being alone under fire.

  Patricia continues to move her leg back and forth as I grab the radio and shout into the receiver: “This is Ames! Do you read! This is Ames! Come in!”

  The radio cackles, and then a voice comes on, muffled by a roar of engines in the background. “This is Cole. Do you read me, Ames? Over.”

  “Cole? Who the hell is Cole? Over.”

  “Real names, now, Ames,” he says. “How are things down there? Over.”

  “Where are you? Over.”

  “Minutes away. Do you have her? Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Good God,” the pilot shouts. “Hell, yeah! Get to the clearing!”

  “No guarantees,” I say. “Hard to know what’s out there. Smith, you there? Over.”

  I hear a click from Smith’s radio. “Still here,” he says, “and confusing the hell out of these dinks. They don’t know where I’ll pop up next. Got four uniforms so far and a couple of lepers. They’re at room temperature.” He laughs. “Can’t get close enough for souvenirs.” Smith laughs again. “Ames, this is more than I counted on. A good time for one and all.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter.

  The pilot says, “Leave the radios on. When I get in, I’ll scout from up here. Do you read? Over.”

  “Roger,” I say. “Out.”

  The radio is still on as I hook it to my belt. Patricia is wandering to the door, oblivious to the trail of blood she’s leaving behind. I pull her to the side and peer out. There’s still sporadic firing.

  “We’re coming out!” I shout to Towers.

  “You’ve got her?” he screams back. “God Almighty! You did it!”

  “We’re not done yet. Are you okay?”

  “Never been better,” Towers answers.

  There no time to wonder about that reply. “We got to get to the clearing,” I call back. “Stay between the cottages and get back through the tree line. Stay off the beach. They’ll expect us to go there.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  “I’ll come along with her. But don’t bunch up on us. You’ll have to get to the landing zone on your own, Jodee. And if for some reason she’s the only one who comes running out after you, you get her on the chopper and get outta here. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I hear a burst of automatic fire coming from Towers’s direction. “This is Nam, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Got that right, soldier,” I say. “Be careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, emphasizing “sir” in a military way. I hear another burst of fire from his direction. “I’m keeping them down, sir!”

  Lieutenant Pavlik is staring at me with a puzzled look. She says something in Vietnamese. I shake my head that I don’t understand. I check my M16, release the empty magazine, and let it fall to the floor. I grab another clip from the bandolier and shove it in.

  The sporadic firing slows, then stops. Skyward, I hear the faintest sound of the helicopter. But what we really need is a gunship. Maybe a few Cobras or one of those new Apache helicopters. All we have is a powder blue chopper, M16s, a .45, and Smith. And Towers, who is learning fast enough to survive.

  And we have Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik.

  Ready?

  “Can you run?” I ask Patricia. She stares at me, uncomprehending. I look down at her stick legs, her emaciated ankles, her bare twisted toes.

  “Go, Towers!” I shout. “Get to the landing zone. We’re coming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I grip Patricia under my arm and pull her with me as I step outside. She hobbles against me. Her mouth is smiling as her eyes tear. She breathes in short gasps mixed with what sounds like giddy laughs.

  I pull her to the side of the cottage, then release her and raise my weapon ready to fire. I squint through the blood falling over my eye and look in all directions. Nothing. This is almost too easy. Suddenly a noise, and I spin around to see Smith burst forward from the side of the chapel to a cottage on our side of the lane. He’s as agile as a cat, leaping and tumbling forward as if anticipating the enemy fire that is suddenly on his heels. He makes it, unscathed. He starts weaving south through the palms and cottages, apparently heading back to the clearing.

  I grip Patricia under my arm again and pull her along. We’ll have to weave our way to the pickup point, but she’s too slow, and I stop by a tall bush and hoist her over my shoulder.

  The radio on my belt cackles. A voice says, “I caught sight of you for a moment, Ames. Keep going. Two clicks is all.”

  Patricia bounces on my shoulder as I run. The radio comes on again with a shout.

  “Behind you!”

  I spin and toss Patricia, my weapon high and ready. She whirls to the ground on all fours. She struggles to stand, her body tense and shaking.

  “Fight!” she screams. “Fight!”

  My eyes strain forward to find what the pilot saw. I try to steady the M16, but as I gasp for air the rifle bobs up and down. Then I see them, along the side of a cottage, four of them in a crouch. I fire two bursts in their direction. The shots go high. They ready their weapons on us, and I hold my breath and fire two more bursts. Two of them fall. The other two flee to the back of the cottage.

  I drop the empty magazine and shove in another. I turn to Patricia. Her hands are clenched defiantly in the air.

  “I run!” she shouts. “I run!”

  She gets to her feet and begins to hobble, but her legs buckle. I hoist her over my shoulder again and race between two cottages to the next lane. I cross it and continue zigzagging south in the direction of the landing zone. Behind me is more fire. We’re exposed now, and a round grazes my side. I throw myself to the ground and roll with Patricia Pavlik. I check the wound. A straight, burning gash is all. I try to ignore it as I drag her by the arm to the side of a cottage. My lungs are heaving and my strength is almost gone. I try to hoist her over my shoulder again. I kneel and finally get her over my shoulder. Then I brace myself on the side of a cottage and manage to stand.

  It’s the last cottage before the cemetery and the grove on the south side of the village. I stagger through the mounds and headstones. Then we are in the trees; branches whip at us as I keep running. I raise the M16 to ward off the next branches. There are shots behind me, but I know I’m not visible in the trees. They can hear me, though. They continue firing what must be random shots hoping to hit us. They didn’t think we’d make it this far. I hope Towers is somewhere up ahead.

  A uniform leaps from my side and I swing at it with my rifle. He goes down. I don’t stop. I continue pushing forward toward the landing zone. The firing continues behind me. I fall to my knees exhausted, my entire body soaked in sweat.

  I’m drained now and have to crawl. That’s the only way. I manage to swing Patricia onto my back and move forward on all fours. But I go only a few yards and collapse again. I pull her to the ground beside me. Her face is next to mine.

  “You have to run, Patricia!” I say. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it alone.”

  She stares vacantly, her eyes fixed on me
. I’ve seen that look before. It’s shock. I turn her over to find a circle of blood staining her greasy top. I look down at myself and realize that I’m cover with her blood too.

  “We have to run,” I tell her again, now in a quiet voice. “Please, you have to help. Do you understand?”

  65

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  HER EYES ARE STILL fixed on mine. Shots whine around us. I let her look at me. She isn’t weeping now. She understands what’s happening around her, and she’s gasping for breath as she grips my hand. She tries to speak, fighting for each word.

  “We go America?” she asks, uncertainly now.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We go America.”

  I know it’s not over. She can still come home. She has to come home. Our lives aren’t all that’s at stake. She’s the proof. She’s the living proof of the others, too. And she will justify searches into every quarter and cave of this country.

  “Where are you?” the radio squawks.

  “We’re heading to the clearing,” I say. “Five minutes.”

  “Clearing is covered!” the pilot shouts. “Do you read? Do not go to the landing zone. It’s a trap!”

  “Then where?” I shout into the receiver. “Over.”

  “The beach. Get to the beach. I’ll find you. Over.”

  “What about Smith and Towers?”

  “Smith isn’t answering. I don’t know about the kid. Just try to get to the beach. Do you read?”

  “Roger,” I tell him. “Over.”

  I tuck the radio in my belt. The sun is setting now. It’s growing darker in the trees. There’ll be more light at the open beach. I help Patricia to a standing position. She takes a step, but grimaces with pain and falls. I stoop and grunt loudly as I somehow manage to get her over my shoulder again. Her arms are draped down my back.

  “Okay,” I say, staggering. “No problem.”

  I take a stumbling step in the direction of the beach. Then another. The side of Patricia’s head lands lightly on my back with each step. I’m too weary to push away the branches. I just brush through them the best I can. Then I stumble over a uniformed body. Then another body a little farther through the trees. Smith has come this way. I hear the helicopter overhead. “Come on, Towers,” I mutter to myself. “Now’s the time to be a genius. Follow that sound.”

  The air turns to a hazy dusk. The trees thin out. I feel sand under my feet as I come to the edge of the trees. The beach is in front of me now. I don’t step out.

  “I’m here,” I say into the radio.

  “Step out,” the pilot says.

  A hundred thoughts race through my head. We’re so close. But the soldiers are waiting for us. Or not. This is the end, one way or another.

  I step out onto the sloping sand and stumble down toward the water. There’s another body, and then another. At the water’s edge, I just stand there.

  “I got you,” the pilot shouts. “Is she okay? Over.”

  I have no strength to answer.

  “I’m coming in, but it’s too steep. I’ll put it down as low as I can.”

  I shift Patricia from my shoulder and cradle her in my arms. She’s looking around. “We go!” she screams.

  Every muscle is drained. I close my eyes and wait until I feel the air from the rotating blades, then look up. The blue craft is floating down in front of us. I stagger toward it with Lieutenant Pavlik still cradled in my arms. The skids come to eye level. She turns in my arms and reaches for them. The pilot continues to descend until one skid touches the slope of the beach. I lay Lieutenant Pavlik on the cargo floor. I push her back away from the door opening. Blood smears across the floor.

  The pilot is looking back at me as he maintains his hover. Then Towers is behind me, gasping for breath. Next is Smith. He pushes his way past Towers and gets between the chopper and me. He puts one foot on the skid and pulls himself onto the lip of the cargo floor. Towers and I move forward.

  “It’s over!” Smith shouts above the gale of the rotors. “It’s over!”

  “She’s in there!” I shout, pointing.

  Smith glances back and nods, then swings the muzzle of his M16 toward Towers and me. “You shouldn’t have come, Ames,” he bellows over the engine noise. “You’re still pretty good, I got to give you that. But this is it. There’s no more.” He shakes his head as if regretting it.

  “What are you talking about?” I shout.

  His M16 is still leveled on us. “She can’t come out, Ames.”

  “You fucking bastard!” I shout.

  He motions with his head to Patricia behind him on the cargo floor. “She’s too unpredictable, Ames. Can’t trust her to stay in the Program. Too many reputations and careers at stake. No witnesses, those are the orders. We still need people to sign up. Now the weapons. On the ground.”

  I let my M16 slide from my hand. Towers does the same.

  Keeping his weapon level, Smith backs up and drags Lieutenant Pavlik forward, across the blood-streaked floor. Her head rests at the edge of the cargo door, her arm dangling out. She’s looking up a Smith. He shoves her with the side of his foot. She tumbles out, and I catch her. I pull her tightly against my chest.

  The helicopter drifts in its hover. The pilot struggles to hold it steady. I step closer, ignoring Smith’s weapon. “Why did you let us get this far?” I demand, but my words are lost in the whirring noise.

  Smith understands anyway. “You’re the one who insisted on coming, Ames,” he shouts above the noise of the chopper. He points at Patricia in my arms. “My job was to find her, and stop her. She’s a tough one, fucking amazing if you ask me.” He smirks again. “Besides, I needed this.”

  “Why not just kill us?”

  “I’m a patriot,” he says with smirk. “I don’t do Americans. So I’m leaving you here for the dinks. They’re really pissed now.” He shrugs. “There’s casualties in every war, Ames, and this time it’s you.”

  Smith lets go with a burst from his M16. “Incoming!” he shouts to the pilot. “Let’s get outta here. Now!” He lets go with another burst.

  The helicopter immediately lifts off. It pitches forward and accelerates along the sands. I still hold Patricia Pavlik in my arms. The chopper banks over the water. Smith is silhouetted in the doorway. The pilot continues to accelerate into the purplish evening sky.

  66

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  THE WHIRRING OF THE helicopter rotors is replaced by the tranquil lapping of the South China Sea. The air, too, is deceptively calm. In the dusk I can just make out the chopper, now a speck in the sky.

  I continue to cradle Patricia, who holds on to me tightly. I finally kneel and then sit, still holding her against me and cradling her head. She’s breathing heavily and seems to be alert. I can see a fierceness in her face.

  Towers squats beside me. “I don’t understand, sir. He was Magellan.”

  “He’s not Magellan,” I tell him.

  I reach over Lieutenant Pavlik and pick up my weapon. I brush the sand off. I release the magazine clip from the M16. I take another clip from the bandolier and slide it in. I glance back at the darkening tree line above the beach. I don’t have to tell Towers what’s coming now. Or Patricia. The ones who were waiting for us at the clearing know exactly where we are now. And when they come, they’ll come swiftly.

  67

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  NO TIME TO THINK about my throbbing head or the side wound. Already I hear movement at the edge of the trees above the beach. I spin around in a crouch.

  “God, it sounds like a platoon of them,” I whisper. “We’re sitting ducks out here on the sand.”

  “What are we going to do now, sir?”

  “We’re just going to keep going, Jodee.”

  I look in both directions. “The only route now is down the beach. All we can do is try to outrun them. It’s a long shot. Unless we get into that tree line farther down and can hide
in the darkness.”

  Ready?

  “How can we run with her, sir?” Towers says. He’s calm; scared, but calm.

  “We just do it, that’s all,” I tell him.

  My mind rages in all directions at the futility of this. I won’t leave her. We all have to come out together. That’s the only way. And it looks like nobody is coming out any way.

  Lieutenant Pavlik struggles in my arms, trying to push herself up again. “We go!” she shouts.

  As she speaks there are muzzle flashes along the trees above the beach, and an instant later, cracks of thunder. Towers and I throw ourselves down flat. Patricia is still trying to stand. I yank her down beside me. The sand kicks up around us, seeming to boil. It’s no use running now.

  I aim my M16 into the trees and fire on automatic. Three seconds and the magazine is empty. Towers fires too. I shove in another clip. Another three seconds, and the bolt flies back. Empty. Then another clip. We’ve got to keep them pinned back there. There’s no other way.

  Towers points, and in the dimness I see their faint silhouettes as they leave the trees and come toward us from the side. He slides in another clip and fires one round at a time. I do the same, firing on automatic. They retreat into the trees again.

  Then I’m out of ammo. I motion Towers to give me his bandolier. He does, and I shove in another clip and fire. Then another. It’s no use.

  Towers pulls out a flare from under his belt. “If we surround them with bright light,” he says, “we might be able to escape in the darkness.”

  I grab the flare. “Your best idea yet,” I say. I position the flare nearly horizontal to the ground and whack the percussion cap at its base. There’s a long whoosh, and a ball of fire shoots across the ground in a shallow, rocketlike arch.

  The flare flies past the advancing soldiers. It lands in the trees behind them, and the bank quickly glows a bright orange, followed by a bright red as the brush catches fire. The soldiers are now silhouetted against the trees.