Tucker's Last Stand
Page 28
“Maybe. Maybe a fake execution. Though something tells me it ain’t that, ol’ buddy. But you know, Black, what I want, don’t you? And I just hope, I just pray—yes, I prayed about it—that you’ve been to see Lao Dai. I just had a feeling you would. Did you?”
Blackford said, “Yes, Tucker, I did, went there late this afternoon. Of course I didn’t tell her where you were. All I said was that I was a little surprised you weren’t back from your hunting trip and I wondered whether she had heard from you.”
“She was really worried?”
“Yes, she was. She said she guessed you had decided to stay on another couple of days. She … she said how much she loves you.”
“She was really worried about my still being in Thailand?”
“Terribly worried.”
Tucker Montana got up and smashed his manacled wrists against the desk lamp, breaking it into fragments. The glass brought blood on his right wrist. He closed his eyes, and a single tear appeared. He spoke in a whisper.…
“You didn’t see her, Black. And she knows I left the inn, because I telephoned her before leaving the airport. She said she would meet my flight. I been thinking, thinking about … the photographs. I’m a goddamned genius in some ways but not too smart in others. I put it all together, one possible explanation. And now I know.” The tears were streaming down his cheeks. Blackford embraced him.
The door was pulled wide. Four men with rifles. A fifth with pistol in hand, which he pointed at Blackford.
“Do not move, Mr. Oakes.”
The four men went to Tucker Montana and led him out. The captain, his pistol still pointed, backed out of the room. The door slammed shut. Blackford could hear the heavy lock being closed.
Blackford closed his eyes. Minutes later he heard the fusillade. And, after a short silence, the final pistol shot.
39
November 8, 1964
Saigon, South Vietnam
The dignitaries were served tea. They occupied the elaborately appointed office of the Prime Minister, at Gia Long Palace. There was five minutes of small talk. The atmosphere had calmed down. Then General Khanh addressed his guests.
“Gentlemen, perhaps we have other business than what—divided us this morning? I hope so, because on the matter of Major Montana, the necessary judicial formalities having been attended to”—he looked down at his watch—“the traitor was executed five minutes ago.”
Maxwell Taylor stood up, his eyes flashing. He looked witheringly at General Khanh, and at Colonel Yen. Yen was smiling. General Taylor walked without a word to the door. Rufus followed him out.
40
November 8, 1964
Saigon, South Vietnam
Rufus reached the safe house just before midnight. He was not surprised to find Blackford sitting there. The apartment was appropriately utilitarian, as though quickly furnished for a transient client: service-duty furniture, desk, coffee table, prints of pretty young Vietnamese girls with parasols walking down the beach. There was a whiskey glass on the table, but it was still filled.
Rufus turned away, looking absentmindedly at the bookshelf. Blackford heard the quiet voice.
“There isn’t anything to say, Blackford. Nothing.”
“No, Rufus, nothing. That shit. Those shits.”
“It’s their country.”
“Yes. And—as the saying goes—they can keep it.”
“I’m sure I know what you are thinking.” Rufus sat down in the armchair opposite. “Is your mind made up?”
“Yes. I’m checking out. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
Rufus spoke very softly. “Tucker was wrong, you know.”
“He was wrong, Rufus, about letting the girl get those pictures, yes. About talking to her—and to them. The pictures were only valuable because he had invented what was in them. But, Rufus, I don’t think he was wrong on the big point.”
“Our presence here?”
“No. I think we have a right to be here, and I think the Vietnamese want us here. But Tucker didn’t think we’d stick it out, match will against their will. And I think he was right. Told him so, in fact. I’m not against fighting apparently lost causes if there is at least the possibility of righting a wrong, of winning, but I don’t see that there is, in Vietnam—in this climate, in this way.… So—it’s time to go, after thirteen years. The best of it has been—you, Rufus.”
Rufus got up. For a moment Blackford thought he was coming over to him. But he stopped.
“Where are you going?” He paused. “Mexico?”
“Yes,” Blackford said. He picked up his glass, and looked at it. “Mexico.” He took the drink and sipped at it, then put it down again.
Blackford stood up, reached for his briefcase, and extended his hand.
“Goodbye, Rufus.”
“Goodbye, Blackford.”
“I hope you will visit us there.”
“I will visit you, Blackford.”
“You will always be welcome.”
Blackford lowered his head, turned to the door, and let himself out.
Author’s Note
Re: Tucker’s Last Stand
This is a work of fiction.
The most conspicuous historical characters are, obviously, characters in history, and some of the episodes are drawn from official and nonofficial, but creditable, sources.
Among the books and materials I have relied upon are the Facts on File Yearbook for 1964; Tonkin Gulf by Eugene G. Windchy (Doubleday, 1971); Truth is the First Casualty by Joseph C. Goulden (Rand McNally, 1969); Vietnam by Stanley Karnow (Viking, 1983); and Goldwater by Barry M. Goldwater with Jack Casserly (Doubleday, 1988). I shouldn’t need to say that constructions of events, as distilled by me, are not necessarily those as seen by the authors cited; but I shall.
Operation 34-A is accurately described, as is Operation Igloo White.
The second Gulf of Tonkin episode remains something of a mystery, though it is, I think, correct to say that the historical consensus is that there was no attack, merely confusion caused by defective sonar work, addled radar readings, and sights and sounds resulting from eccentric meteorological conditions. The sequence of reported events is accurately reproduced.
Colonel Bui Tin was the principal architect of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and was interviewed by Morley Safer in his book Flashbacks (Random House, 1990).
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to friends who read the first draft and made many useful suggestions, including my wife, Pat, my siblings, Reid and Priscilla Buckley, and my obliging friends Charles Wallen, Jr., Professor Thomas Wendel, and Richard Clurman, and Lois Wallace.
Tony Savage not only typed all the drafts, but encouraged the whole enterprise and also made valuable suggestions.
Dorothy McCartney, as ever, was invaluable in research matters, and I am ever so grateful to her for the pains she took.
Frances Bronson provided the usual editorial coordination, irreplaceable.
Mrs. Chaucy Bennetts, the superb copy editor, rescued me yet again.
Joseph Isola (he keeps count) has, with this book, proofread twenty-five of my books, with diligence and flair and patience.
Alfred Aya, Jr., who in many ways reminds me of Tucker Montana, gave me all the technical data I used: not only a technical description of the paraphernalia that went into our Igloo White operation, which he got from research; but also the counterweapons, which he invented; as also such details as I used in describing the mission of Blackford Oakes on August 4, 1964, in the Gulf of Tonkin. I have all along suspected that an unpublished feature of the ABM Treaty forbids the United States Government from availing itself of the resources of Alfred Aya, Jr.
I have previously recorded my indebtedness to Samuel S. Vaughan of Random House for his prodigious contributions. But this time around he read my manuscript, in line-by-line detail, twice, contributing much of the best that is there. I am obliged to him as an editor, and as a friend.
W.F.B.
Stamf
ord, Connecticut
August 11, 1990
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by William F. Buckley, Jr.
Cover design by Barbara Brown
Cover illustration by Karl Kotas
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1857-9
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