Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One

by H. L. Valdez

  “Don't worry about the time; they don't close until seven in the morning. Just keep having a good time," he said with a blissful smile, greeting friends on the dance floor as the band began to play Do You Love Me by the Dave Clark Five.

  "Oh groan," Gina's inner voice agonized, as drunken Sailors, bar girls, prostitutes, transvestites, Marines, Rico's hit men, Goon Girls, male tourists, high school girls, homosexuals, he-she Lady Boys, businessmen, American civil servants and local Philippino blue collar workers began shouting, dancing, jumping, and clapping their hands while bumping into her as she and Rico slow danced.

  "Everyone's fast dancing," Gina shouted above the music.

  "That's okay, I'm my own person," he screeched, with his pungent breath overpowering her senses.

  "I believe you!" she whispered, turning her head sideways trying to avoid his halitosis.

  On the large wooden stage, three Filipina singers with long black straight hair stood behind microphones singing in three-part harmony under the glare of orange, red, blue, and green stage lights. Wearing tight black micro-mini skirts revealing a peek at their pink see through panties, the exotic singers aroused the crowd as their firm breasts freely swayed beneath pink transparent blouses. On one side of the stage, nude dancers wearing spiked heels clung to ropes hung from the ceiling, swaying to the music while licking their breasts and rubbing their vaginas to the sexual enjoyment of inebriated shouting males. The large rotating mirrored ball was reflecting hundreds of small-multicolored lights on bare-breasted bar girls dancing on tabletops, stepping from table-to-table in sheer red crotchless panties. Testosterone crazed panting males excitedly stuffed dollars and pesos into their skimpy panties while touching and rubbing their slender thighs and luscious buttocks. Without missing a beat, the band began playing Dancing In The Street by Martha and the Vandellas. The cheering crowd on the dance floor, engulfed in frenzied emotions, began clapping and shaking their bodies to the music, wildly singing along with the song.

  "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" drunken Marines cheered their buddies on, who were pressing their eager lips against the panty covered cock-smart vaginas of the sultry table dancers. Ravenous customers threw discarded peanut shells on the floor, quenching their thirst with deep quaffs of San Miguel beer. In the back of the club, under large tables, two Goon Girls were on their knees gripping and squeezing the hard penises of their lovers, providing oral satisfaction to their Goon soldiers.

  "This is a sample blowjob. Don't come, you come later," they shouted, pausing in their sexual performance, giggling.

  "I'm trying not to come, but it’s hard," a Goon said, laughing, glancing at the soldier beside him who was having his thick uncut penis sucked by his Goon Girl. The international languages of money, sex, and music were winning. Alcohol and drugs were washing away all the symbols of status, rank, power, and education. Without stopping, the band began playing I Like It by Gerry and the Pacemakers. The party was just beginning. War is at the shore.

  The Final Payment

  28 August 1964. Saigon, Vietnam. The evening’s heavy rains were turning into scattered showers as streaks of morning sunlight pierced through dark clouds onto the shadowy alleyways and narrow streets of the city. Tension and fear hovered in the air. The Ngo Dinh Diem regime was carrying out systematic executions. The Viet Minh were retaliating and assassinating South Vietnamese government officials. The well of dissent was fomenting as Viet Cong insurgents were fighting back. Wary and tired, Gina Leung was eating a bowl of noodles at the simple stand-up table of an outdoor food stall, oblivious to old women peddlers passing by carrying bundles of dead sea horses and baskets filled with slimy, writhing snakes. Shading her eyes from the sun with one hand, she watched tattered trucks rattle by with wire baskets filled with quacking ducks, barking dogs, and screeching monkeys being delivered to restaurants for frying and sautéing, in preparation for lunch. Taxis honked their horns at assorted Pedi cabs carrying pigs and crates of vegetables that, in turn, were maneuvering around bicycles carrying children.

  Stirring the fermented fish broth with her chopsticks, Gina intently observed the street traffic. Sprinkling pepper and ginger onto boiled bones, prawns and bits of chicken, she blew on the steaming soup, watching the street for anything out of the ordinary; one of her greatest fears was being ambushed. Looking at her watch, it was ninety minutes past sunrise: the workday had begun. Squeezing a fresh lime into the soup and stirring the broth, she stood watching the street activity develop. Feeling tense, she was pondering heroin shipments through Saigon, and the weapons needed to supply Colonel DeLaGarza’s men. After several minutes of contemplating strategies, she nudged the remaining noodles away from her. Feeling anxious, she adjusted the knapsack on her shoulders, picked up her large canvas duffel bag, and began walking toward the Majestic Hotel.

  Paranoid and jittery, Gina carefully studied the faces of approaching strangers, looking into their eyes for clues into their soul. Pre-occupied in thought, she bumped her duffle bag against pedestrians, moving them out of her way as she passed food stalls selling chubby five-inch Gecko lizards trapped in bamboo cages, stretching, squirming, and struggling for freedom, desperately trying to escape from being dipped in batter and pan fried for lunch. Annoyed with people bumping into her as they passed, she struggled to control her anger and not personalize the irreverence of the collisions.

  "They adjust, then you adjust. They adjust, then you adjust," she repeated, as sirens blared from speeding civilian and Military Police cars. Self-conscious, Gina stopped in front of a bakery storefront where baguettes were being baked in a wood-fired oven. With her back facing the wet street, she set the oversized duffel bag down, held up two fingers and ordered two, pate sandwiches with onions, vegetables, chilies, and ginger, on warm French bread. As the sirens faded, she turned and kept a lookout for the elusive enemy; paying for the sandwiches, she picked up the canvas bag and continued walking.

  Colonel Tran Ng, a native Saigonese, was sipping a bottle of "333," a popular Vietnamese beer on the fifth floor of the Majestic Hotel. Peering from behind white ornate lace curtains he was holding a scarce P38SD caliber pistol with Walnut Grips and silencer. The code word cyq was engraved on the barrel indicating it was manufactured for the German Army in Spreewerk, Germany. Colonel Ng was hyper-vigilant and jittery as he scrutinized incoming boats filled with rice maneuvering the wide Saigon River arriving from the Mekong Delta. Waiting for Gina, Tran questioned his reasons for returning to Saigon and thought about Paris life in the early 1950s where he had studied law. Now, as an officer in the People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN), and a member of the elite Viet Cong C-10 sapper Battalion, his duties were in a gray area between ordinary police work and guerrilla warfare. As the Americans shifted their military focus from Laos to Vietnam, Vietnamization efforts were increasing and Tran became Commander of the Main Forces Unit, which probably was the toughest and most experienced guerrilla fighter group on earth. Working with other security units, he had access to highly desirable military equipment and firearms used by special weapons and tactic teams.

  Deep in thought, Tran set his pistol on the beverage cart, then sipped his beer watching young women on the street below riding bicycles and scooters, and thinking about what needed to be negotiated for the success of Gina’s business. He felt uneasy with Gina being promoted into the Yakuza’s inner circle. The intricate elder and younger brother relationships she formed were a world beyond his reach. The nature of his future relationship with her was unclear and the requirements for her heroin business were changing. After minutes of contemplative silence, Tran heard a click at the front door. Turning, he picked up his weapon, and waited in the curtains’ shadow. Attentive to every sound, he heard the front door close and lock. Breathing in a steady pattern, he crouched on the floor, stretching into a prone position, carefully aiming his pistol toward the opening bedroom door. Tran noticed the short barrel of the 5.56 mm submachine gun known as a CAR-15 being pointed into the dimly lit room as the door eased opened.


  “Tran?” came the hushed tone, as he stayed quiet, holding his aim steady.

  “Tran. It’s me, Gina,” the soft voice repeated, not entering the room. Tran lay motionless.

  “Tran. Are you there?” the voice whispered, as a slender figure slowly entered the shadowy room flipping on the wall light. Tran held his aim, carefully eyeing the person entering the bedroom.

  “Gina,” Tran blurted, squinting his eyes, adjusting to the glare of dazzling lights reflecting from the chandelier.

  “What were you expecting?” She asked with a sense of relief, walking forward, lowering the deadly barrel.

  “In this business, I have to stay paranoid," he said, standing slowly, easing the 9mm Luger pistol into a custom made worn leather holster. "Besides, you’re late. What kept you?” he asked, walking toward the bed.

  “Security is tight all over the city. There's a demonstration in front of the American Embassy and roads are blocked off. It goes on and on," she replied, walking across the room, setting her bags on the floor, and then rested her submachine gun against the wall.

  “Crime and security seem to fit. They have many levels,” he uttered, sitting on the bed, considering the varied stages of violence, holding the weapon in his hands, and dangling it between his legs.

  “Crime is on the rise. A lady has to be careful. Besides, acts of sabotage are more frequent; local and military police are patrolling everywhere,” she said, walking across the room while removing handcuffs from her black webbed belt and placing them on a small marble table top.

  “You look tired,” he observed, rubbing his close-cropped black hair, being aroused watching Gina unbutton her khaki shirt.

  “You look tired too,” she said, glancing at his rugged features, aware that she was revealing her black-lace bra supporting her small firm bust.

  “I've been in the jungles of Cambodia for the past six weeks,” he answered, placing his weapon under the bed. “I've been playing hide-and-seek with terrorist assassination teams along the international border,” Colonel Ng said, unbuckling his belt, loosening the top button of his trousers and pulling out his shirttail.

  "No wonder you’re tired. So, you’re still conducting pre-assault and distant post-assault reconnaissance patrols," she asked, with her khaki blouse wide open, stimulating Tran as he sat staring at her exposed breast and feminine form.

  “Freedom has a price tag,” he stated, as blood engorged his tubular penile veins into a throbbing and expanding erection.

  “Our new twist is conducting prisoner snatches of South Vietnamese officers and political figures helping Americans,” he said anxiously, while discretely pushing down his semi-firm penis.

  “Sounds hazardous,” she replied, removing her brown khaki pants over her boots, taking delight in watching him squirm to manage his intensifying erection.

  "These guys are not wearing arm bands or turning themselves in," he said, staring into her brown eyes as she returned his lingering stare, standing before him in her black silk panties as an insatiable sexual current and surge raced through their bodies connecting and meshing with their sexual chemistry, desires, and fantasies.

  “Thanks for taking care of the Supreme Court Judge,” she whispered, approaching him, with a desire to repay his support.

  “That was more of an accident. The judge was caught in a crossfire; we got lucky.”

  “But you seized the evidence. Good thinking. Now the Federal Grand Jury can’t develop a case against us,” she advised, standing in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

  “Luck,” he smiled, placing his hands on her inviting hips.

  “What kind of evidence was it?” she questioned, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his thin, muscular abdomen.

  “Times, dates, products, places, and names,” he replied seriously. “It’s all in that attaché case,” he informed her, pointing to the brown over-stuffed briefcase on the floor.

  “Only an insider could have had that information,” she declared frowning, removing his shirt.

  “Could be more than one.”

  “Thanks again for that,” she expressed, with a sigh of relief, touching his cheek, with warmth in her smile.

  "Something else is wrong? I sense something," he observed, squeezing her hips as she twisted away walking to the small food cart near the window.

  “I need your help,” she stated, opening a bottle of 333 beer and taking a small swig. "You’re the type of man who can take control, and I like that," she baited him, walking to the window. “Events are moving quickly, and I have a bad feeling about this situation," she alleged, standing behind the laced curtain while surveying the street for irregular activity and suspicious looking men.

  “What are you talking about?" he asked, scratching a green shamrock tattoo on his chest, a souvenir from his Irish girlfriend at law school. "A woman like you is always in control. Be straight with me,” he said, unlacing and removing the French patrol boot with canvas uppers and rubber soles from his sore foot.

  “I need help in protecting opium moving from the Golden Triangle through Saigon," she said, turning her head toward him.

  “I see.” He replied in a toneless response, avoiding eye contact.

  "Is that too much to ask?” she questioned, shifting her gaze back to the street traffic below, sipping her beer, watching for any unusual vehicles or activity.

  “I knew that was the problem," he countered. "It’s a lot to ask. But, it depends on what I get. I have a lot of unmet needs,” he answered, unlacing the other boot, feasting on her alluring figure and natural curvature.

  “Quid pro quo is okay,” she suggested, staring at the busy street, intensely searching for the elusive enemy, glancing at vendors selling red and blue Siamese fighting fish. “But security leaks are the problem. I need tighter security.”

  “I see. Well, let’s look inside the briefcase, maybe we can find a clue.”

  “OK, let’s carefully analyze everything together, piece-by-piece,” she recommended, holding the curtain back slightly. “But let’s do it over breakfast.”

  “Fine, but your request could be expensive," he said, hiding his feelings, tugging off his boot.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, releasing the curtain, turning toward him with a serious face.

  “People are dying out there. Special Forces and Gurkha soldiers are patrolling the Golden Triangle and using Meo nomadic mountain people to conduct guerilla warfare,” he informed her, removing his green socks.

  "I know. And U.S. Special Forces are also using Kha tribes to raid our processing labs along the Ho Chi Minh trail and steal our morphine and heroin,” she advised him, sipping her beer. “And none of this gets less complicated.”

  “I’m losing men out there. That really bothers me. It’s a bad situation.” He complained, with a heavy sigh.

  “My mule caravan was ambushed by two Special Forces soldiers. One of my men survived, but I never got the shipment back,” she stated, setting her beer on the table.

  “I see, but, I have more,” Tran added. “My Main Force Units use the trail as our main resupply route across Laos into South Vietnam and Cambodia. This is a real hot spot. Americans started bombing the trail.” He said stoically, not wanting to show fear, while giving himself little emotional room to make a mistake or show vulnerability. He thought expressing himself was feminine. In time, this attitude would prove to be a burden on his emotional well–being, his soul, and psychological health. It was the key character defect that created a wedge in his relationship with Gina. His outdated attitude and rigid psychological structure was proving to be a burden to her. Gina was tired of witnessing his emotional blockage and the demise of their relationship. The old symbols of manliness were not fitting into her concept of love. Love required action. She was tired of changing his emotional diapers. Their romance had a flat tire–their love was constipated–stuck in the emotional trenches.

  “If what I’m asking is beyond your level of experience, I’
ll go somewhere else," she replied in a relaxed tone, shrugging her shoulders, mixing Tran a bourbon and water. "I can pay someone else to do the job.”

  “You know better than that. It’s just that your jobs are never easy. They’re filled with complications.”

  “I know this. But, there’s another piece to this story,” she added, opening her backpack. Tran stared at her exposed cleavage and squeezed his penis in anticipation of making love with her.

  “What is it?” he asked, rubbing his mouth.

  “I need your men to eliminate a crisis response team that’s following me and my partner,” she told him, removing a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  “I knew there was something else. You never have easy requests," he said, watching her neatly open the small brown package. "Your jobs are filled with strings. But go ahead, I’m listening,” Tran said, with a faint smile.

  “I need weapons for some goons I hired,” she declared, standing at the food and beverage cart, roughly measuring out 5 milligrams of heroin from a small brown folded packet and a double amount of cocaine from a separate packet. “First stop is right here in Saigon and the Triangle. I want to increase security to fifty men in Saigon. Then clean up security breaches and leaks,” she advised, while mixing both drugs into the bourbon. “Second stop is Tokyo and Los Angeles. I’ll take twenty-four of your men to act as an additional security unit,” she announced, stirring the potent cocktail.

  “Anything else?” he asked smiling, watching Gina advance, relishing her toned, muscular alluring body as she handed him the drink.

  “I’ll need the twenty-four men as a back-up unit for a return trip to Los Angeles for a meeting with future distributors.”

  “Anything else?” he asked, sipping the narcotic laced cocktail.

  “Weapons,” she answered, watching Tran's eyes as she removed her khaki shirt, letting it fall onto the beige Persian rug.

  “What type of weapons?” He questioned, holding the narcotic laced drink in his right hand, exposing a silver Montagnard luck bracelet wrapped around his wrist.