Red Flags

by Juris Jurjevics

  I emptied another magazine at the woods as I went. Cox too. He jumped butt-first onto the chopper and detonated the claymore, sending up a geyser of dirt and fronds at the corner of the field.

  I ran up to the bay door and dove in. The bird rose the instant I was on. A shot clanged off the chopper's armor under the pilot. Another screeched through the aluminum overhead. We were away.

  I sat up, panting, my fatigues soaked with sweat, and vowed never to smoke again as I checked myself for wounds. I accepted a lit cigarette from Ruchevsky and inhaled it deeply. It tasted bitter. Cox, legs dangling out the door, kept his face turned away from us all. Willie shifted over next to him and held his hand.

  I took the contraband medical supplies to Roberta at her clinic. She looked relieved to see me.

  "You're okay?"

  I didn't reply.

  She turned pale. "Is the colonel ...?"

  "He's on his way back, he's fine. But he's got a full plate waiting for him."

  "Of course," she said. She resumed washing her hands in a basin; failing to find a towel, she dried them on her white lab coat.

  "Just wanted to bring you this medical stuff."

  "Everybody made it okay?"

  "No. We lost a Special Forces noncom. Sergeant Grady."

  "The black sergeant at Mai Linh?" she said. "Poor man."

  "What's that?" I pointed at the jars on her bench.

  "This?" she said, touching one. "Kabang tree resin. The Montagnards use it as a poison. This one—ipoh tree sap—is poison too. It's possible these substances could have medical applications."

  Her face tipped toward me.

  "Something on your mind, Rider?" She looked at me quizzically.

  I needed to tell her about the father of the child we'd delivered, but I couldn't. Didn't.

  "No," I said. "I'm ripped up about losing Grady the way we did, is all. Wanted to drop these supplies off," I said, holding out the haversack, my hand unsteady.

  "Oh, Erik."

  "I think it's mostly morphine in there."

  "Thanks. You're an angel of mercy. We're always so short on everything."

  She took the sack from me and laid out dextran blood thickener, vials of morphine, and two bottles of liquid sulfa. Out came a dozen lengths of commo wire, coiled. Except the wire was stripped out, leaving just the insulation.

  I was baffled. "What the hell is that for?"

  "Tubing," she said, stretching out a section. "God, it's an IV. They've improvised an intravenous line." She locked me in her gaze. "You captured this."

  "Yeah. Didn't want to see it go to waste."

  "How will you ever beat these people?" she asked, returning her attention to the contents of the sack.

  "I don't know."

  "They're beyond determined." She turned toward me. "You sure you're all right?"

  She called a nurse to take away the supplies and made tea. We took it out on the bare concrete slab at the back of the house and stood with our cups, looking at the trash-strewn lane. The sky was threatening again. Clouds rolling in a solid gray avalanche. It was going to pour later. The full monsoon was drawing closer.

  "Everything's going to turn to goo soon," she said.

  "Yep. The ARVN will stand down and snooze away the rainy season. The VC will maneuver through the mud and launch their monsoon offensive. And we'll curse the bad flying weather and our jeeps and trucks and armor."

  "Some things don't change."

  A Montagnard family marched toward us in a line, grandfather at the front, followed by his son-in-law, his daughter, and their children. The old man carried the youngest boy in his arms. They stopped in front of her and spoke in their language. Roberta pinched the boy's skin. It remained bunched when she let go.

  "Dysentery. He's totally dehydrated. Nearly gone. Rider, I've gotta go."

  She led them into the dispensary, calling out instructions to her nurses.

  Miser laid it open on a bit of plastic sheeting in the grass in the quadrangle between the bungalows and the mess hall.

  The NVA radio nested in a .50-caliber ammo can, one of ours. The whole rig was hand-built. The knob of its Morse code key was a mahjong tile. The set was housed in aluminum, precisely wired, well machined, the tube sockets drilled out, capacitors aligned, resistors grounded to the chassis.

  Miser sniffed at it with professional coolness. "Hand-wound coils."

  "Impressed?" I said.

  "Built from scratch."

  "Let me see." Ruchevsky leaned closer.

  The courier was already in the air on the way to Pleiku. Cox was accompanying him to II Corps headquarters for MACV. No way were we exposing him to Colonel Chinh's intelligence officers and field police across the street, even though the official demand to see the prisoner had arrived soon after we returned. Bennett wasn't yet back from his mission, so he couldn't be held accountable for any alleged slight or violation of directives. I was all too happy to play the offending party and shoo the ARVN lieutenant away from the gate. I lied and said the captured documents had gone with the prisoner. Joe Parks offered some sage advice as we walked back toward the bungalows.

  "A word of caution. Translate the enemy documents before you pass 'em back to the head shop in Pleiku."

  "They won't do it?" I said.

  "They will, but you'll never know what was in them, even if they're plans for another attack on Cheo Reo. The higher highers will tell you that you haven't got the clearance to see it. It's too sensitive, and like that. Intel's a one-way street. Tap off what you need before passing it on."

  "What a way to run a war," I said.

  Checkman hunched at his desk, slaving over the papers. We had risked our lives to gather the raw intelligence, and we wanted to learn what we could about what was really happening in our backyard before sending the stuff down the rabbit hole to headquarters.

  Colonel Bennett, still in battle dress, returned and summoned Ruchevsky and me to his office, along with Gidding and Parks.

  "Incredible," he said. "You got Wolf Man. A special courier comes at first light tomorrow to fetch all this. It's getting its own chase ship." Bennett motioned at the materials spread over Checkman's desk. "Do we know any more about what's happening locally?"

  I held up a classified teletype message. "Intel from Two Corps. Confirms the NVA are still on the move setting fire to mountainsides along the way to block overflight sensors."

  Bennett said, "What's your take on what's happening, Joe?"

  Parks clamped down on his pipe. "They'll march three nights running, twenty to twenty-five miles a night, their companies spaced an hour or so apart."

  "That's what passed by the night we were probed?" said the colonel.

  "Yes, sir. Probably four or five companies maneuvering past us, single file, their soldiers two meters apart. With maybe two other similar columns following different tracks farther out."

  "They needed to get out of this basin and into the mountains," Ruchevsky said.

  Sergeant Parks sat down, facing the colonel's desk. "Right. Once the NVA near their targets, they'll lay low again until everyone's assembled. They'll distribute extra ammo, put casualty-recovery squads in place, set up aid stations along their withdrawal routes, dig graves ... and it'll be on. Some base or airfield will take a major hit; at least two battalions.

  "The assault," Parks continued, "it'll be precisely timed. May take sixty minutes or several hours. Whether or not they take their objective, at the appointed time the NVA will stop their attack and disperse into the jungle, taking their wounded with them, while mortuary squads drag away the dead. They'll drop off the live casualties at triage points, and by morning the battalions will be miles away, scattering through the jungle, breaking down into ever smaller units ... separated again. They'll disappear."

  Checkman's typewriter ratcheted as he tore out a page. Red-faced with excitement, he spoke rapidly. "The confiscated documents and precisely drawn map were the Northwestern Zone Order of Battle," he announced.

/>   They confirmed what we'd guessed: the first mission of the newly formed battalions was to march sixty miles in three nights, heading southeast along three land routes. Mass up as two reinforced battalions and launch a major attack.

  "Their objective's Tuy Hoa," Checkman stated. "The air base and Army installation on the coast."

  "From which a lot of our air assets originate," Bennett added. "The river running past us leads straight there."

  "The Hundred and First Airborne is in Tuy Hoa," Gidding said.

  "The NVA are moving southeast," I said, pointing at the map. "Downriver. They'll go past our Special Forces camp at Phu Tuc and on to Tuy Hoa.

  "They skipped our small piece of it," Gidding said.

  "They can afford to," Joe chimed in. "We're inconsequential."

  Checkman stood and resumed his summary. The captured maps, he explained, marked out the routes of approach and the routes of withdrawal, ammunition-distribution points, first-aid stations serving the battlefield, field hospitals farther from the fighting, the sites being prepared in advance for quick burials. He sat down and started typing again.

  Bennett exhaled. "Joe, what's your estimate of their total rice supply?"

  Parks paused to do a quick calculation on a scrap of paper.

  "Their daily requirement is eighteen ounces per man. Figure fourteen hundred men, that means ... fifteen hundred pounds of rice a day, sir."

  "Three quarters of a ton," Ruchevsky said. "No wonder they're emptying the villages along the way and replenishing their rice stash at their camps in the mountains." He absently worked the lid of the mahogany box back and forth. "All those mouths to feed. Mrs. Chinh must be getting ready to order her next season's Paris couture."

  Major Gidding glared at Ruchevsky.

  "Not if we can help it," Bennett said, ignoring his XO's look of disapproval.

  Checkman stopped typing just long enough to give us the showstopper. He held up classified sheets by way of demonstration.

  "Our SOIs with next week's radio codes. A list of all our frequencies and Pleiku's. Operational area assignments. A schedule of air assets and target clearances in process. MACV intelligence estimates on the NVA presence in the Highlands. Harassment and Interdiction fire coordinates for the Vietnamese artillery to target."

  "Good God," Joe said. "So much for their harassment shelling."

  Ruchevsky whistled. "Or bothering to clear air strikes through them. A total waste."

  Joe Parks leafed through the documents.

  "All this is eyes-only. And found on a VC corpse—their top political officer for the province. Son of a bitch."

  Ruchevsky could hardly contain himself. "Which means Wolf Man was rushing classified information to the enemy command to encrypt and pass back to their headquarters. The highest-ranking VC in the province carrying information that could only have come from one of two sources."

  Bennett looked sallow. "Me and my Vietnamese counterpart, and our immediate staffs."

  "Colonel Chinh," Parks said. "Well, unless you've gone over, sir, Colonel Chinh's responsible for supplying the enemy with highly classified information."

  Ruchevsky raised his hands and said, "Hallelujah." He was elated, arms thrust in the air. "The wicked witch is dead!" He stopped when he saw Bennett's expression. "What's the matter, Colonel?"

  "Think about it, John. Finding this on Wolf Man isn't ironclad evidence it came from Chinh. Think about what Saigon and MACV will say if we—if I—accuse a province chief of something like this." Bennett draped his web belt across his chair and leaned on his desk. "His benefactors won't appreciate our threatening him with exposure, since they're beneficiaries of his corrupt practices."

  And he didn't even know about Chinh's major source of extracurricular income, the revenue he didn't share with his betters.

  "If they have to investigate him," Bennett said, "they'll investigate me. In the interim, the new province chief will send me packing just to even things out and save face."

  I hadn't thought about the backlash against Bennett, the effect on him of a clash with the supreme civil and military authority in the province. It seemed unfair that he should suffer, maybe lose his post, be separated from Roberta. Roberta—the other reason Bennett might be hesitating. Chinh would be vengeful. Revelation of Bennett's adultery would end him as an officer and a gentleman. He looked deflated.

  "Whatever else he is," Bennett said, "Chinh's one of them. They'll protect him and their injured national pride."

  Ruchevsky toyed nervously with the mahogany presentation box on the side of the desk and lifted out Chinh's gift pistol. "You mean, protect their collective asses since they all partake of the spoils, pack away their gold for the moment when ..."

  "We need to tread carefully," Parks said. "Exposing Chinh will make them nervous, which doesn't bring out their best qualities."

  Ruchevsky gave an exasperated groan. "Come on, people. We're not talking graft anymore. This is way beyond black-market profiteering. It's not even merely collaborating. This is total fucking treason."

  "What's the punishment?" I said.

  Ruchevsky glanced up. "For treason in wartime? The firing squad if they like him. The guillotine if they don't. Take your pick."

  "Get real, John," Gidding exclaimed. "It's happened on his watch, is all."

  "True." Joe Parks agreed with Gidding. "More likely Colonel Chinh will just find himself transferred, pending an investigation that will never get off the ground."

  "You being cynical or serious?" I said.

  "Both. A couple of months ago we could've turned him in to their anti-corruption committee in Saigon, but it was just disbanded for corruption. If I had a nickel for every sticky-fingered province chief transferred out of harm's way to a better job elsewhere... Chinh could easily walk away free and richer."

  I said, "Isn't there any way to bring him down and not catch the recoil?"

  "Yeah," Ruchevsky snarled, "kill the son of a bitch in his sleep. His rat wife too." He dropped the Chinese pistol back in its box.

  Bennett wiped his face and addressed Ruchevsky. "Chinh may not be able to touch you, John. But by the same token, he's protected too. You can't just put his name on a list."

  "A damn shame too," Ruchevsky said.

  Parks said, "If we give him time, he'll find a way to weasel out of this, blame someone on his staff, blame us, leaks by VC agents at higher headquarters, his astrologer—whatever. Leaning on him immediately with the suggestion that we have absolute proof—that might just work."

  Bennett opened his canteen. "You really think Colonel Chinh would give up his sinecure, just write it off and go quietly?"

  Joe Parks sucked on his pipe. "If we acted fast enough, he wouldn't know what we've got on him. He could only imagine the worst. We won't know if it's enough to lever him out of here if we don't put it to him, sir."

  Bennett recapped his canteen. "Tell him we want to spare him embarrassment—or worse. Say we're giving him the chance to resign and save face."

  "And neck," I said.

  Bennett looked to Ruchevsky and Gidding. "Are we agreed?"

  Gidding looked undecided. Ruchevsky started to giggle. We all looked at him, puzzled.

  "Colonel," he said, "Chinh may assume he's already won your goodwill and cooperation."

  "What are you talking about, John?"

  Ruchevsky turned the box around to display the big circular colonel's insignia replicated on the inside of the lid.

  "Your solid silver eagle? It's platinum."

  We found Colonel Chinh taking late-morning coffee with his officers at the one decent café off the market square. The colonel was treating his men, looking content and prosperous, a gold Dunhill lighter resting next to his Marlboros on the low table. He rose as Bennett approached, and his officers stood up with him.

  "May I speak with you?" Bennett said and stepped back into the street before the man could reply. Colonel Chinh scooped up his cigarettes and lighter, waved Captain Nhu and the others b
ack into their seats. Bennett led him away, but not before I heard him say, "We need to speak privately ... without an interpreter. Do you think we can cope without having someone translate?"

  Chinh said, "Yes," and lit a cigarette. Bennett began to speak very softly, calmly laying out our case against him. Chinh's features grew stony as he listened, snapping the lighter open and shut. The ash grew. Finally Chinh spoke, smoke punctuating his words. I couldn't make out what was said, but he was stern and displeased.

  "Colonel," Checkman called from the jeep, holding up the handset of the radio. "It's urgent."

  Bennett excused himself and hurried toward the vehicle.

  "He's not budging," Bennett said to me as he passed. Taking the handset from Checkman, he gave his call sign and listened. He had trouble hearing and covered his other ear to hear better.

  I looked back at Chinh, arm across his waist, holding his elbow, and made a quick decision. Chinh might not fear accusations of treason from us, but he'd be mad not to fear his superiors if they found out he was denying them their financial due. The corruption was a system, elaborate and unforgiving, with no real means of contrition and mercy. Anyone who flouted its customary practices would be made an example.

  He turned back toward the café. "Colonel Chinh," I called. He stopped and waited for me to catch up. "I have intelligence you should consider before choosing your next steps."

  "I speak your colonel already," he said. "I tell I punish when I find."

  "This is a separate matter, sir." I stepped closer. "In my position as intelligence officer, I've learned that General Loc may soon be made aware of your wife's cousin's overseas account."

  Chinh grinned. An Asian reflex when stressed—or panicked.

  "Of course," I went on, "the information might not reach General Loc ... if you were to resign your position as province chief. Which unavoidably leads to a delicate matter." I paused to stoke his anxiety. "Your wife's part in all this. She may have to face charges as well."

  "Captain Rider," Bennett called out. "We have to get back."

  I turned on my heel and hurried to rejoin Bennett and Checkman. We drove hastily back to MACV.