Mafia III

by Marsheila Rockwell

  When they weren’t working on the well, they focused on the village’s security. There was a good chance that once they started actively interfering with the communist presence on the Plain of Jars, they would make targets of themselves. With that in mind, Donovan directed some of the men to build a weapons shed to store guns and ammunition in. He wanted something stronger than the typical thatched bamboo, and he wanted a lock on the door, but that would have to wait; for now, they improvised a latch from scrap metal. He also set the women to making and filling sandbags, which the men positioned in strategic spots as bunkers. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  During the afternoons, the heat and ever-rising humidity conspired to bring most manual labor to a halt. Lincoln sat with Sho at those times, in the shade of the longhouse he had been given, and helped her plan out lessons for the school. Mostly, she planned and he tried to encourage her efforts, but once in a while he was able to reach back into his own childhood and suggest things the kids should learn. Already, most villagers were excited by the prospect, even if some of the children viewed it with trepidation.

  Lincoln and Donovan held planning sessions in the evenings. Koob and the other English-speaking men translated, and all the able-bodied men and older boys of the village attended, at the insistence of Koob’s father, Kaus. Donovan took a back seat at most of these, offering ideas as needed, but Lincoln took the lead. He told the villagers what they were up against, described communist battle tactics, and explained what their role in the fight would be. Some of the men had their own ideas, and some of those were more realistic than “Charge down from Vang Khom and crush them all like babies under our feet!” Lincoln kind of liked that one, but he wasn’t sure how to implement it.

  On Donovan’s last night, he and Lincoln went for a walk, up toward the mountain’s summit. There, looking out at the moonlit expanse of the Plain, the agent lit a smoke and gave one to Lincoln.

  “I know you’re nervous about tomorrow,” he said.

  “It ain’t tomorrow got me worried,” Lincoln said. “It’s all the days after that.”

  “You’ll be fine, Lincoln. You’re a natural leader. You know what you’re doing, and you know how to share it. These guys don’t look like much now, but when you have the weapons and you can start drilling, they’ll surprise you. They’re dedicated. They want the communists dead as much as you and I do. If the dumb fucks at the Pentagon had any brains, they’d stop sending over green kids from Akron and Memphis and just enlist every Hmong and Montagnard and Bru they could find. Pay and equip them like American soldiers, turn them loose on the enemy. The war would be won inside of a year.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it. The trouble with the goddamn bureaucrats is they’ve never been in the shit. They don’t know what war’s really like. Especially this kind of war. The Pentagon brass are afraid to treat it like World War Two or Korea. There you had an army on this side of a line and an army on that side, with their tanks and howitzers and air support, and they fought until somebody lost. But they’re not giving this war that kind of support.

  “In this war, the North Vietnamese consider human life another replaceable asset, like bullets. They’ll keep throwing men at us until they wear us down. When they’re not amassing huge forces, they’ll snipe at us from the goddamn jungles. If it were up to me, I’d just rain down bombs and blow the whole country to kingdom come. Trying to fight them on their own terms is insanity. It’s never going to work here. But what you’re doing—that can make a difference. A big difference.”

  Lincoln thought Donovan meant what he was saying. He wouldn’t have brought Lincoln here just on a whim. He believed this kind of mission could have an important impact on the struggle to keep Laos—and by extension, the rest of the world—free. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  “That’s all anyone can ask, brother. Just do what you can.”

  • • •

  As they all did these days, the morning dawned all at once. The evening before, the village had been abuzz with excitement over the coming weapons shipment, even if the enthusiasm had been tempered somewhat by the knowledge that Donovan was leaving. Lincoln was better known than he had been, but Donovan was still the one who had some history with Vang Khom—and the only one of the two who could get the Hmong names right, much less speak a word of their language.

  Lincoln wasn’t sure what to expect when he left the longhouse, but the village was noisier than usual. When he stepped outside, he saw why—just about everyone in the village was gathered in the central open space, and most wore their finest outfits. The women were in black skirts with colorful aprons, with bands of silver coins at their waists. They had elaborate headpieces and silver jewelry, and the embroidery Sho had mentioned was everywhere. Most of the men had on fancy black harem-style pants with shirts and vests, not quite as colorful as the women but impressive nonetheless.

  Lincoln found Sho in the crowd, dressed in her own traditional finery. “You look great!” he said. “Is there a holiday today?”

  She giggled. “Today the guns come, silly.”

  “You’re all dressed up because an airplane’s bringing some guns here?”

  “We are Hmong, Lincoln. We like to dress up, to celebrate. Any reason will do. But also, because your guns will let us kill the Pathet.” She took his arm in her hands, and the unexpected contact thrilled him more than the easier girls he’d had back home ever had. “And you will teach us to use them,” she added. “Lincoln, you will be a great Hmong warrior.”

  “I don’t know that I’ll ever be Hmong,” he said. “But I’ll try to be a warrior.”

  The landing strip was a slash near the top of the mountain. It ran up a slope that must have been twenty degrees and was flat only at the end, making Lincoln wonder what kind of plane could possibly land there. Corbett had claimed his U-10 could touch down almost anywhere, but so far Lincoln had seen only one catch in the treetops and crash.

  By eight in the morning, the crowd had gathered around the strip. Ordinarily, Lincoln would have expected to set out a flare or a smoke bomb to direct the pilot in, but in this case, he was pretty sure the morning sunlight reflecting off all that silver could be seen by satellites in orbit.

  Donovan had his duffel packed, and he waited with the others, standing in the shade of some palms flanking the strip. “You’ll be fine, Lincoln,” he said. “You’ve got Koob to help you communicate. And Sho—she seems to like you.”

  “She’s way too special for someone like me,” Lincoln said.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, man.”

  “I just mean—I’m from the streets, right? An orphan and all.”

  “And she’s the daughter of a Hmong village woman and who the fuck knows who? What’s your goddamn point?”

  “I don’t know, she just seems like royalty to me.”

  “She’s just a girl, Lincoln. You’re a man. Whatever happens, happens. The Hmong have their own traditions, but they’re not hung up on our western morality. Not when it comes to sex. Just, you know, be careful. You don’t want to leave any little Lincolns running around.”

  Lincoln had not expected to have a sex life at all in Laos, unless it was with B-girls in Vientiane while on R&R. That had been one of the drawbacks of accepting this assignment. He had finally decided that serving in Vietnam wasn’t going to be any better in that respect—the A-team camp at Lang Vei wasn’t exactly crawling with women.

  “I’m not planning to,” he assured the agent.

  Before he could say any more, a cheer went up from the assembled villagers. In the distance, a silvery speck in the sky grew larger, transforming into an airplane with wings above the fuselage. Having been inside one, Lincoln recognized a U-10 Super Courier.

  “It’s Corbett!” he said.

  “That’d be my guess,” Donovan agreed. “He’s not the only Air America pilot who flies those, but he did promise to come back.”

  The crowd parted as the U-10 rumbled in for its
landing. It hit the slope and started up. For a moment, it seemed to pause, and Lincoln worried that it would roll down the mountain and into the trees below. But the pilot gunned the engines and muscled it to the flat stretch of runway on top.

  There was another cheer from the assembled multitude, and as soon as the pilot killed the engine, the people rushed the airplane. They opened up the rear doors and started hauling out crates. Lincoln was surprised by how much the plane could carry with no passengers.

  Corbett emerged with a huge grin on his face. He was wearing a different Hawaiian shirt and still had no survival vest on. “You’re both still alive!” he said as he greeted Lincoln and Donovan.

  “I was more worried about you,” Lincoln said. “I’ve been on solid ground, but you’ve been in the air. Crashed number six yet?”

  Corbett shot him a punch, stopping it well short of landing. “I don’t know you well enough yet to let you insult my aeronautical skills like that,” he said in mock anger. “Not till we’ve crashed together twice.”

  “Shouldn’t take long, then,” Donovan said.

  “It will if I keep my feet planted,” Lincoln said. “Which I intend to do.”

  “Hey, you went through jump school, right?” Corbett asked. “You should be used to jumping out of airplanes.”

  “I did, and it was the worst week of my life.”

  Donovan nodded toward the aircraft, where the Hmong men were mobbed around open crates, pulling out carbines and boxes of ammunition. “Don’t let them start shooting until we give the okay. They’re not exactly in formation; someone’s liable to get hurt.”

  “What else did you bring, Corbett?” Lincoln asked.

  “I got a pump and parts for a windmill,” the pilot answered. “Some piping. Grenades, a few mortars and rounds. Handguns and knives. Oh, and mail for you.”

  “For me?”

  “There another Lincoln Clay on this hill?”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  “You know anybody in New Bordeaux?”

  “As a matter of fact, just about everybody I know’s in New Bordeaux.”

  “Then I guess it’s for you. I’ll grab it.”

  While Corbett went back to the cockpit, Donovan took Lincoln’s hand in his. “This mission is gonna be a giant pain in your ass, Lincoln,” he said. “But I have no doubt you’re the right man for it.”

  “When are you coming back?” Lincoln asked.

  “I don’t know. When I can. Mostly you’ll see Corbett, though. You know how to radio for supplies. Keep your code pad handy. Oh, and don’t forget to burn your mail after you’ve read it.”

  “I know. Nothing to ID me as an American.”

  “That’s right. I wish I could send you some James Brown records, but they’d be a dead giveaway.”

  “Plus, no electricity.”

  “Well, you’ll have a windmill, so that’s a start. Stay frosty, big guy.”

  “You know it,” Lincoln said to Donovan’s back. The agent walked toward the U-10 and climbed into the passenger seat without looking back.

  About the time he got there, Corbett returned with a courier envelope containing several letters. “I wish there was more,” he said as he handed it to Lincoln.

  “It’s cool. Not many people gonna write to me anyway.”

  Corbett leaned in closer and pulled Lincoln to the side. “Listen, I didn’t know you were from New Bordeaux. Lot of action there, huh?”

  “What kind of action you mean?” Lincoln asked.

  “You know. The kind where a guy can make a few bucks. Do I have to spell it out?”

  “Look, man, if you got something you want to say, just say it. Just you and me here.” He grinned; they were surrounded by almost three hundred other people. “I mean, that speak English.”

  “It’s just, you know. Working for the government is great and all, but it doesn’t pay that well.”

  “You’re tellin’ me,” Lincoln said.

  “So if there’s a way to make a little something on the side, well, I’m always on the lookout, right?”

  “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

  “Okay, here it is. You’ve got this village, and there are some poppies already growing over there.” He pointed to a patch of dried-out vegetation at the edge of a field. “They’re not much right now, but I just brought you irrigation equipment, right? Get some water going on those, and they’ll take off. Soon as the rains come, they’ll grow even faster. A few other villages are doing it. I sell their product for them, and they make good money off it. I get a little piece, too, so it’s win-win.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Well, I have the plane and I’m taking all the risks. But still, most of it goes back to the villages, so they can buy things they need.”

  “You’re a real humanitarian, Corbett.”

  “I’m a businessman. I keep my suppliers happy, and I can keep my customers happy.”

  “Makes sense,” Lincoln said. He was trying to think through the ramifications of what Corbett was saying. He was talking about growing opium poppies, which meant heroin. There was good money in it, but Sammy had always been strictly opposed to it. “That stuff would kill our own, if we let it in New Bordeaux,” Sammy had told him once when he’d mentioned it. “I won’t have anything to do with it. Not now, not ever.”

  “So what do you say?” Corbett asked. “You seem like a guy with a good head for business.”

  Lincoln interpreted that to mean, “You’re black, so you’re probably a criminal.” But the fact was that he was a criminal, although that didn’t necessarily follow from his skin color. If he had been adopted by a law-abiding family, he might be in some other line of work.

  “I can see if I can get something going here,” he said after considering the question. “But under one condition: None of it goes to New Bordeaux. You got to understand that. If any of your product goes into New Bordeaux, you and me will have a big problem.”

  “Hey, I dig it, man,” Corbett said. “I just thought you might have a connection there who needed some product. But if you don’t want it there, I’m with you. There’s no shortage of markets for it. I can move it in Chicago, New York, Philly . . . lots of places. I’m not out to make enemies, right? I just want to make a few bucks and help my friends make a little, too.”

  “Long as that’s understood,” Lincoln said.

  “Absolutely, man.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll let you know next time you come this way.”

  “Works for me, man,” Corbett said. “Time for me to get airborne. I’ll see you on the next go-round, okay?”

  “Fly straight,” Lincoln said. He stood at the edge of the airstrip while Corbett had some of the Hmong men turn his U-10 around, then watched it taxi down the slope and launch into the air.

  He guessed Corbett had recognized some outlaw spirit in him that the pilot shared. It was easier than thinking that Corbett assumed any black man was an automatic drug dealer. Then again, the worst bigots were usually the ones who swore up and down that they weren’t prejudiced, and that description fit Corbett like a glove.

  But he had worked with worse people back home. There was money in the drug trade, and no better place to grow opium. What the man said made financial sense. And considering the paucity of his corporal’s paychecks—even with the CIA’s bump—he was glad to get a little something going.

  • • •

  Later that day, after the men had put away their finery and donned their regular daily garb, Lincoln took them back out to the fields. He carried a carbine and an AR-30, with ammunition for each. Koob carried a grenade, which Lincoln had warned him to be very careful with.

  At the edge of the field, a young palm grew. It had reached a height of about seven feet. After the demonstration Lincoln had in mind, it wouldn’t grow any taller.

  First, Lincoln held up the carbine, an Italian-made copy of an American M2, and slapped home a thirty-round banana clip. “This is a
.30-caliber carbine,” he said, then waited for Koob to translate. “This magazine holds thirty rounds, and the gun’s an automatic rifle that fires at a rate of about 750 rounds per minute. It’s a good defensive weapon, with a practical range of about two hundred yards.”

  He aimed at the palm tree and emptied about half of the magazine. The rounds shredded some of the leaves on the trees. As the echoes of the shots died off, Lincoln said, “If you want to be issued one of these, raise your hand.” Unsure whether they knew the concept, Lincoln raised his to demonstrate.

  Out of the sixty-some men gathered around, about thirty raised their hands in the air—some both hands, some waving them around enthusiastically. The carbine was shorter than a standard rifle and lighter, making them popular with the ARVN soldiers to whom they’d been issued.

  “Okay,” he said, setting down that weapon and raising the other gun, an Israeli version of Russia’s AR-30. “This is an AR-30, also with a thirty-round magazine,” he said. “And a similar rate of fire. It’s a little heavier, though. Here’s how it works.” He set the weapon on full auto, aimed it at the same tree, and squeezed the trigger.

  The rounds utterly denuded the tree, leaving only what remained of the trunk standing up like a half-sharpened pencil—or, he thought, a middle finger.

  “Who wants one of these?” he asked.

  Instantly, every hand in the crowd shot up.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “You’re lucky—we have enough for all of you. As we add more men, some will have to take the carbines. They’re still good guns and will serve you well, but they’re not quite as scary as the AR.”