“He’s no enemy, General, and he’s no savage. Believe me, he’s just running a little nervous. Now’s not the time to act like a woman, you.”
“Woman? Now I am woman. I am thinking I am…what is it? I am a zip-head general, so you said.”
“A little theater, General. Nothing but drama. Don’t take it to heart.”
“Still…”
“Still nothing,” Bergeron turned to face the shadow. He didn’t like the fact that he was in more light than Ngo and subconsciously stepped sideways into deeper shadow. “Like he said, he thinks you’re a crazy one, you. That’s exactly what we wanted. He’s more scared of you than you of him. That’s what we want. We’re setting in the butter.”
“Perhaps. But my friend, John, it is not so good to have a man who is so unpractical.”
“Unpredictable.”
“Ah, yes. Unpredictable. Perhaps it is wise for me to look elsewhere for a partner.”
“Now hold on, General, there’s no reason to get your nuts wrung up in a knot. He’s harmless. Just a little spooked. He’ll be fine. Let’s stay the course here. I pay you, you grease the skids, the product gets delivered, I get the information I need, and everyone’s happy. Everything’s working.”
“Provided your Red Indian cooperates. We have much to lose, you and I. Much.” Ngo Van Thu lit another cigarette and his face momentarily flashed visible.
“He will, but you and your contacts haven’t really made things very easy for him. No. For crying out loud, General, four-deuces? Do you have any idea? Medical supplies are easy…a pallet of claymores was hard enough but obviously doable, but a shipment of four-deuce mortars? Four-deuces? That’s a logistical nightmare at best. Do you know how much a four-point-two-inch mortar weighs? Over three hundred friggin’ pounds without the rounds and the packing. And it’s not like they won’t be missed either; these aren’t like your car keys; you don’t just mislay an M-30 mortar. How about something smaller? Sixty-millimeter? Even an eighty-one might be possible. But a four-deuce? What in Christ’s name were you thinking?”
“That is what is wanted. It is the price of doing business, my friend, John.”
“I hear you. I’m simply saying that it won’t be easy.”
“It is September, friend John. The planting is finished. Harvest will be soon. You have 120 days as I count. Without the items that my associates have requested, your product will not pass the border. You Americans may control the towns by day, but you do not control the border at any time. My associates will be needed to make this happen. If you wish your product…”
“You just make the arrangements; I’ll take care of getting your items.”
“And Master Sergeant Tenkiller? What of him?”
“What of him?”
“I think he has served his use. He is now unpredictable.”
Bergeron tried to focus on the general, but the room had darkened too much and even his shadowy outline was now hard to discern. Bergeron spoke to the glowing tip of the general’s cigarette that danced and swerved like an orange firefly. “You saying you want him killed?”
Ngo Van Thu exhaled a lungful of smoke that Bergeron could not see as much as feel and smell. “Perhaps, yes. I think this is perhaps best. I can arrange for this, if you wish not to dirty your hands, John Bergeron.”
“No, General,” Bergeron replied as he turned and looked again through the shutters at the people outside. “He’s my responsibility. I have contacts as well. He’ll be taken care of.”
CHAPTER 29
Long Binh, Republic of Vietnam
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1970
For most of his investigation, Paul Fick found that civilian attire had been the better key to the locked doors he’d been knocking on, but today he’d opted for his khaki uniform. He was going to talk to a career soldier, and for better or worse, career soldiers respected rank and formality.
He’d started with a list of twenty-six; names of men with access to the types of material showing up in the wrong hands, cross-listed by dates in-country. Material had been leaking north for almost two years, which eliminated everyone with a year-and-out ticket, unless the system was so organized that the insider was handing the business off to his replacement, which Fick doubted. At least he hoped there was no revolving door. One turncoat was easier to stomach than institutional treason. Operating from this premise he’d found only twenty-six men in all of the Republic of Vietnam who had access to the types and quantities of materials being traded and who were on the downhill side of two consecutive tours. He’d spent the last three weeks questioning them one by one. Thirteen had subsequently returned stateside and could reasonably be excluded as suspects in the last two transfers of material, one had turned out to be a clerical error caused by a misplaced keystroke in a Social Security number, one had been hit by a car in downtown Saigon six months earlier and was sufficiently dead to eliminate him as a candidate, likewise, another had overdosed on heroin a week after that and could be scratched, one was serving time in the Long Binh Jail for assault when the last two transfers were thought to have taken place, another was in LBJ for rape and couldn’t have had a hands-on part of the last transfer, and another six had solid enough alibis that Fick was comfortable eliminating them for the time being. That left two, and Captain Paul Fick, complete with uniform, had made arrangements to meet with one of them today.
Tenkiller, Jimmy L., Master Sergeant, U.S. Army.
The supply depot at Long Binh was billed as the largest supply depot in the world. It probably was. It was often joked that it stocked everything except atomic bombs. It also was sometimes joked that it did. It gave the impression of an anthill that had been poked up with a stick; constant movement in four-dimensional space and time. Twenty-five hours a day, eight days a week.
Captain Paul Fick had met with Master Sergeant Tenkiller’s immediate supervisor the day before. A young first lieutenant from St. Joseph, Missouri, whose fair complexion had blistered in the angry sun of South Vietnam to a point where he looked like a stretch of peeling wallpaper. He’d been eager to cooperate, sensing that hard men like Fick were better placated than annoyed, and he’d seen to it that Tenkiller would be available for questioning at the captain’s convenience. He’d even arranged for a suitable location, a seldom-used, corrugated half-moon Quonset hut near the motor pool: Building T-13.
Jimmy Lee Tenkiller was already seated at a small wooden table when Fick arrived. The building was not air-conditioned and the unpainted aluminum sheeting clicked and popped as it expanded in the rippling heat. It was obvious why it was seldom used; a single, four-bladed oscillating fan provided the only reason for air movement, and during the dry season the space was close to uninhabitable. Tenkiller shot to attention when he saw Fick enter. His metal folding chair rattled on the plywood floor.
“As you were.” Fick patted the air with his left hand. Over the last year he had developed the habit of using his left hand for most things. He told himself that it was the result of habit acquired as the result of the surgery and therapy that his right hand had undergone, though he secretly suspected that some level of subconscious vanity was at the root. It bothered him each time it happened, and he chastised himself, but it kept happening.
Tenkiller collected his chair but remained standing.
“You’d be Master Sergeant Tenkiller? Is that correct?” Fick could see the rank on the sleeve and the nametape on the pocket. It was as much a formality as it was a real question.
“Yes, sir, and you’d be Captain Fick, sir?” Tenkiller could play with the same formality. He’d eased off of attention, but retained a respectful posture as he watched the captain approach the table. He knew little of what this man wanted, though he feared much.
Paul Fick placed his canvas field satchel on the table and took the room in, looking at the ventilation options. He didn’t mind for his own sake, he’d been raised to think that discomfort was next to godliness, but he’d long ago learned that the stiffness of a man’s tongu
e was often closely tethered to bodily comfort, and he wanted Tenkiller’s tongue to be as limber as possible. He noted the fan; he also noted the closed windows. The constant thrum of two-tons and forklifts outside precluded an open portal of any kind. The fan alone would have to do if they hoped to have any conversation.
“Sit, Master Sergeant, please.” Fick made sure to pull back his chair as he spoke. He knew that Tenkiller would wait for him to at least begin sitting down before he’d move. “What have you been told about why I’m here?”
“Very little, sir. The lieutenant said that a captain from Washington wanted to see me. I don’t know what this is about, sir.”
Fick settled into the metal folding chair opposite Tenkiller and undid the buckle on his satchel, but didn’t remove the file folder within. He kept the fingers of his right hand tucked into the canvas bag, his fingertips in contact with the file. He was careful to maintain eye contact. “How long have you been here, Master Sergeant?”
“Vietnam? This is my second tour, sir.”
“Consecutive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Volunteered?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fick waited for the noise of a forklift passing by the closed window to dissipate before continuing. It provided a ready excuse for sweating Tenkiller. “About due to PCS, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I’m due to leave this assignment in a couple of months, but I’m not changing duty stations, I’m getting out.”
Fick took the opportunity to extract the file and open it. He kept the folder up so Tenkiller couldn’t see how little was actually written on it. “How many you have in, Sergeant?”
Tenkiller’s eyes had been looking at the back of the folder and flicked up to catch Fick’s before he responded. “Fifteen last June, sir.”
“Fifteen.” Fick knew the answer but he let a tone of surprise flavor the word. “You made rank fairly quickly. You have some college? That right?”
Now it was Jimmy Lee Tenkiller’s turn to wait for the sound of several heavy trucks driving by the building to subside. He needed the time to gather his thoughts. He had no idea where these questions were headed, but something about Fick set him on edge. “A little,” he answered. “Oklahoma A&M.”
“That right? A&M? It’s Oklahoma State now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fick leaned his chair back onto the two rear legs and looked down the length of his nose at the man opposite him at the table. “I seem to recall someone named Tenkiller who did some running for A&M. Supposed to be pretty good. Don’t remember the event, though. You by chance any relation to that Tenkiller?”
Tenkiller smiled at the thought, not the question. “You could say that.”
Fick nodded as if the information meant something. “Going back to school when you get out? That where you’re headed? Must take money to do that. ’Course there’s always the GI Bill.”
“No, sir.”
“No, it doesn’t take money? Or, no, you’ve got money? You’re not still on scholarship are you?”
“No, sir. I mean I’m not going back to school.”
“Why not?”
“Rather not say, sir. Just not, is all.”
“But you are going back to Oklahoma when you leave here. Is that correct? Going home?”
“Possibly.” Jimmy Lee Tenkiller thought about the bait-and-tackle shop with his brother. This man had no reason to know about it; it was no one’s business but Jimmy Lee’s. “I haven’t completely decided. Right now I’m focused on doing my job. That’s what I get paid to do.”
Fick nodded again, slowly, as if he were orchestrating each question like a chess move rather than groping. “It’s good to get paid, that’s a fact. Master Sergeant Tenkiller, let’s shift direction. What are your duties here at the depot?”
“I’m a supply NCO.”
“You’re a master sergeant, I wouldn’t be so modest.”
“Lots of E-8s here, sir. I just do my job.”
“I’m sure you do, but educate me, what job would that be, Sergeant?”
“I handle supplies, sir.”
“Good, let’s talk about that for a moment.” Fick paused and reopened his file folder. “What sort of supplies do you have access to, Master Sergeant Tenkiller?”
“The usual, sir. Socks, watches, beer, soda pop. The stuff that the men doing the fighting need.”
“Socks, watches,” Fick repeated as if he were reading from the file. “They do need that, Sergeant, they do need that. Been there myself.” He looked up at Tenkiller and smiled. “Not to mention the beer and pop. The men do need that too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“’Course it doesn’t hurt to have an M-16 and some ammunition either.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You handle any of that type of supplies, Sergeant Tenkiller? The killing type?”
Tenkiller hesitated and then realized that he shouldn’t have. “Some.”
“Some?” Fick asked. “You’re a master sergeant at the largest military supply depot in the world, I’d have thought it would be more than just some. How about other supplies? Medical supplies? Morphine? Doxycycline? Primaquine? Anything like that?”
“Sometimes, certainly. Yes, sir.”
“How about claymores? Antipersonnel stuff. You ever handle that sort of item?”
“I suppose.”
“I suppose you would,” Fick said. “I suppose you would. After all, you are a supply NCO, aren’t you?”
Tenkiller did not answer, nor did Fick expect him to.
“You married, Master Sergeant Tenkiller?”
“No, sir.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No, sir.”
“No one at all? You’re a handsome man. Athlete. Not even a local girl?”
“No, sir. I do my job. I’m leaving here in a few months; don’t need any connections like that.”
Fick eyed Tenkiller closely. It was possible. Fick himself had no wife or girlfriend stateside and none in-country either—he’d never gotten yellow fever the way so many of the young men did; still, Fick accepted that he was something of an aberration, and while he knew very little of Tenkiller, he doubted that his practiced celibacy was motivated entirely by dedication to duty. He turned his attention back to the few notes he’d scribbled in the file. “I can understand not wanting any…entanglements…like that. And you do seem to be a hard worker. Fact is, Lieutenant Pruitt says that he almost has to force you to take some time off the job.”
“I do my job.”
“That’s what your lieutenant says. That’s what he says. I’m so used to being around infantry Joes, though, that I was skeptical when he said that. Almost two years without a…without a ‘connection,’ as you say, is a long time. I was skeptical until he showed me your leave file. Except for one day every month—just about the same time every month, too—you’re here doing your job as a supply NCO.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s what’s so puzzling, Sergeant Tenkiller.”
“Sir?”
“Well, your lieutenant seems to be under the impression that you’re meeting your girlfriend when you take leave. Now how’d he get that mistaken impression, I wonder. How about you—does it make you wonder? Why do you suppose he thinks you’re sneaking off to meet someone?”
Both men sat staring at each other. Neither spoke for almost a minute.
“Sir, with all due respect, I have duties waiting on me. Does the captain have any more questions?” Tenkiller finally blinked.
Fick took a deep breath and sighed slowly. He’d been groping in the dark, and while something about Jimmy Lee Tenkiller struck him as out of kilter, he really had no idea where to take the questioning. That fact, combined with the swelter and noise of the metal building, made for an easy decision. There was always time to regroup. Fick smiled and placed the file folder back into his canvas satchel. “Not at this time, Sergeant. You’re free to go.”
Jim
my Lee Tenkiller rose to attention and saluted.
Fick returned the salute, and Tenkiller walked to the door and opened it.
“Master Sergeant Tenkiller,” Fick said above the noise of the vehicles outside.
Tenkiller hesitated, partially shutting the door and shutting out the noise. “Sir?”
“Intermediate high hurdles, wasn’t it?”
Tenkiller paused, then answered. “Yes, sir. Conference record.”
“Do me a favor, Sergeant,” Fick said quietly, his back still toward Tenkiller, “don’t run anywhere.”
CHAPTER 30
Fort Campbell, Kentucky
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16, 2008
Deveroux stared at the name written on the scrap of paper, crimping his brow in confusion. “Sir?”
The general had already swiveled his chair back to the window and had resumed his gaze out the window. “You’ve heard of General Fick, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. I suspect just about everyone has. Somethin’ of a legend when I was startin’ out. Couple tours in Vietnam. Lost three fingers, as I recall. Silver Star. Short tempered; can melt polished brass with his tongue, doesn’t suffer fools easily…”
“That he doesn’t.” The general laughed. “For damn sure, he doesn’t. I’ve seen Paul barbecue more than one full bird too. And for the record, you were close; it was three tours and two fingers.”
“Yes, sir. You sound like you know him, General.”
“Better than some, I guess. He was a year ahead of me at the Academy. A year and a lifetime really. Worked harder than any other two cadets combined. Worked his ass off. That’s what was so ironic.” He turned to face Deveroux and smiled. “I don’t know how much you know about him, but he was raised a Mennonite or a Quaker, or some such shit. Pacifist. But he was dedicated; good God, was he ever dedicated. More like a monk sometimes than a soldier. Hardworking. Disciplined. Loyal. Rock-solid sense of right and wrong. There is no gray in his world, only stark white and black. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”
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