Everyone in the room, including Lieutenant Bourne, stared at the agent’s eyes.
One was blue and the other was a dark green. LeBlonde continued talking, knowing exactly what kind of effect he was having on his audience. “For the time being, consider everything discussed in this room as top-secret information.” He paused. “As this special operation becomes known, I’ll let you know what you can put in your letters to your mothers.” The dry attempt at humor didn’t get any reaction from his listeners. LeBlonde caught Bourne’s hard stare and grinned. “I think the lieutenant’s interested in my eye.” The grin left his face. “The green eye is glass . . . I lost the real one in the Congo when I was on a special assignment . . . for the State Department . . .” LeBlonde kept looking at Paul, who had shifted his attention to the label on his Shasta can. “They were starting to dig out my other eye with a stainless-steel spoon when some of my friends dropped in and interrupted their fun. We convinced them that their conduct wasn’t condoned in the civilized world.” The room became midnight quiet. LeBlonde grinned and stared at Paul out of the corner of his good eye. The agent took a deep breath and continued his briefing. “I have to leave Duc Co shortly and meet nearby with an ex-Vietcong leader who is willing to trade us some information.” LeBlonde crossed his arms. “So! What do we want with you two?” He pointed at Paul and Sergeant Mills at the same time, using 36
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both of his hands, and then leaned over to look out the screened window. His head brushed the plastic-coated grids, disturbing two fat green flies who had been in the middle of propagating their maggot-producing species.
The hum from their wings was the only sound in the room as the group of soldiers waited for the special agent to continue talking. “I have information that MACV Headquarters gathered late last year concerning a large increase of heroin trafficking to American troops in-country since the late summer of ‘67 . . . What concerns the brass the most is that our troops can now buy refined heroin on the streets of Saigon—cheaper than it costs to manufacture it. Certain senior South Vietnamese generals have had the market cornered on drug sales and prostitution since the beginning of the American build-up in the South.” LeBlonde looked over at Mills and half-closed his eyes before he spoke again. “We feel that the communists have entered the drug market.”
“How do you figure that?” Mills interrupted.
“Because . . . the South Vietnamese generals don’t have a reason to lower drug prices. Don’t forget, they control the market and they’re profit oriented
. . . they’ve had good teachers.” A genuine smile cracked at the corner of his mouth and quickly disappeared. “Only the communists would have something to gain by lowering the price and raising the availability of heroin to American troops. The Agency has contacted the Asian warlords who have control of the growing and shipping of the raw opium coming from the Golden Triangle around Burma, Thailand, and Laos. We have also confirmed that the North Vietnamese—along with their Chinese advisors—are buying all of the opium base that they can get their hands on and are paying top dollar for it.”
Lieutenant Bourne and Sergeant Mills leaned forward on their seats as their interest in the subject was whetted from the agent’s conversation.
Captain Pellam was glancing out the window like a trapped animal.
LeBlonde took his time lighting a skinny, dark brown cigar that he had removed from a case hidden inside his jacket. He inhaled the first smoke deep into his lungs and held it there before releasing it as a blue jet stream between his teeth. Paul understood why the agent’s voice was so rough. LeBlonde took another deep drag and exhaled, followed by a series of deep coughs, before he continued. “With Laos and Burma neutral nations, a large military force crossing their borders would cause a very big political incident. I think all of us remember what happened when U.S. forces crossed into North Korea.” LeBlonde’s eyes swept the room and found everyone watching him. “The communists have rapidly gained control over all the big poppy growers in the Golden Triangle, either with bribes or assassinations of key people. It’s the latter reason that has caused the warlords to cooperate with us . . . but, of course, in secret.”
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“Shit!” Mills couldn’t contain himself any longer and the word sprang from between his clenched teeth. “You telling us that our fucking allies are the main suppliers of drugs to American troops!”
“You’ve put that problem together rather well . . . but you must remember before you come down too hard on anyone that the South Vietnamese generals are using capitalistic principles that have been taught to them by members of the West . . . and there are American pilots who are flying the heroin into this country from Thailand . . . and you can’t sell a product if you don’t have any customers . . .”
Lieutenant Bourne’s mind wandered as LeBlonde talked to Mills. He recalled his first tour of duty in Vietnam serving with paratroopers out of the 173d Airborne. The opium-smoking North Vietnamese had always gotten their asses kicked when they met the highly disciplined Americans. Giap had changed all of that by executing field commanders and soldiers who abused drugs in his combat units. Now the communist fighters were nearly drug free—and the Americans were the ones resorting to drugs for their courage.
“After all of that background talk, you two are probably trying to figure out what we want from you.” LeBlonde’s voice became even deeper as he reached down to lift the lid from an aluminum box that hadn’t received much attention on the floor next to his foot. He removed what looked like a roll of silver dollars and broke the paper cover against the edge of the table, allowing the double-eagle gold pieces to spill out. LeBlonde flipped a coin to Paul and Mills. “Keep them as souvenirs.” He stacked the remaining coins in a neat pile, still looking down at the dull yellow-colored coins as he spoke. “We would like you to meet a special envoy of warlords and buy this year’s opium harvest from them with the coins in that box.” He nodded down at the open container.
“What’s my part in this?” Captain Pellam’s voice sounded like that of a prepubescent boy compared to LeBlonde’s.
“Sorry, Captain . . . there’s not a part in this play for you . . .” He tapped his cigar against the side of the table in order to knock off the cold gray ash and relight the stub. “We only want to borrow a couple of your men . . . I realize that will bother you somewhat . . .” LeBlonde reached inside of his jacket,
“. . . but I have a letter here from General—”
“That’s all right . . .” Pellam raised his hand to stop LeBlonde from producing what he had concealed in his jacket pocket.
“You sure?”
“I trust you . . .” Pellam was just glad that he hadn’t been asked to join the duo from his team.
“Well, I hope you can keep what you’ve heard to yourself, Captain Pellam
. . . You can imagine what will happen to these two young men if the South Vietnamese generals even suspected that we knew what was going on . . .”
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LeBlonde’s eyes crossed slightly looking at the cigar he clenched between his yellow front teeth. He puffed hard to help his lighter start the tobacco burning again. “So don’t tell anyone about this meeting—including your colonel . . .”
“But—”
“No damn buts! Especially your colonel!” LeBlonde smiled. “He has too much contact with Vietnamese . . .”
“Well, thanks a fucking lot!” Mills’s voice carried an angry tone, but Bourne could tell that the sergeant was leading the agent on.
LeBlonde’s eyes left Pellam and cruised over to the sergeant. “We could have found a dozen glory grabbers in Nha Trang and had them kissing our asses for a chance at this mission.” LeBlonde flicked his tongue against his teeth trying to dislodge a piece of toba
cco. “Consider it an honor that you’ve been selected. ”
“I’ve had a couple of missions that didn’t pay as well as this one.” Paul rubbed his thumb over the face of the gold piece he held in his hand.
“The pay for a lieutenant going on this mission is exactly the same as for one working in the Saigon post exchange.” LeBlonde’s lip twitched. “If I didn’t already know that you possessed an extraordinary sense of integrity, I would have been insulted by that remark you just made, Lieutenant.”
Paul smiled, showing his teeth. He had to give LeBlonde credit for doing his homework. The opportunity to steal large sums of money from camp funds had presented itself almost daily, and he had been accused by other A-Camp executive officers as being too strait-laced during monthly money payroll pick-ups, when he would turn in accurate accounts for the money he had spent the previous month. A lot of civilian contractors were running huge profit-making black market operations, and in some instances were actually selling American arms to the Vietcong agents that worked near the docks in Saigon and Nha Trang. Paul could point at a lot of sergeants and officers at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, who lived in huge homes that had been bought with schwarz-geld, but the owners claimed that they had inher-ited money. Paul was honest and that was the way he was going to stay, regardless of the temptation.
LeBlonde was staring at Paul when the lieutenant’s eyes refocused on the people in the room with him.
“Are you going to join us again, Lieutenant?” The agent wasn’t trying to be sarcastic.
“Where and how is the exchange going to take place? How far do we have to haul these gold coins?” Paul was ready and wanted to get on with the details of the “Why do we have to even use gold coins—paper money would be easier to backpack,” when Mills joined in with his own question to the agent. “Hey! Why are all of these coins dated the same?” He shoved the pile of gold double-eagles out over the table.
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“Hold it!” LeBlonde frowned. He realized that the two men had accepted the mission in their own fashion, but they were asking too many questions that needed answering in a more sterile setting. “Only two answers: First, we are using gold coins because the warlords don’t trust paper money; secondly, they are all dated the same because we had a special batch run off for us by the Denver mint.”
LeBlonde glanced from Mills to Bourne, “The mission orientation briefings start tomorrow . . . Your meeting with the warlords will take place seven days from today.”
“Where is the meeting going to take place?” A puzzled look appeared on Paul’s face that couldn’t be ignored by the special agent.
“The Tri-border area . . .”
“You mean the Laos–South Vietnam–Cambodia intersection?”
“Nope.”
“Holy shit!” Mills voice cracked, “not the fuckin’ North Vietnamese intersection—there’s five fuckin’ enemy divisions up there!”
“Bingo! Young man—the warlords are taking one hell of a big risk bringing their opium down that far south. They’re going to bluff their way by telling them that they have to deliver to PAVAN Southern Headquarters.
Some of their men will be dressed as NVA officers . . . enough said!” LeBlonde realized that he was telling too much, but he was as excited about the mission as the two young Green Berets.
“Why don’t you get some of those super SOG recon men up in Da Nang to handle this mission for you. Hell, that’s their area.” Sergeant Mills had made a good point.
“Like I told you before, Sergeant, you have a special qualification that we need: your hate for drug dealers.” LeBlonde assumed his professional expression.
“Tomorrow, the two of you will be taken to Da Nang and briefed.” The agent stood up straight, and unbuttoned the second button on his jacket, and adjusted his holster. “Bring only your personal articles with you; everything else will be supplied by Command and Control North.” LeBlonde nodded to his bodyguards and turned back to Paul. “Oh—I forgot to tell you that the mission is voluntary”
“Gotcha . . .” Bourne knew as well as LeBlonde did that he couldn’t say no.
“I’ll have to think about it and let you know in the morning.”
Sergeant Mills grinned at the lieutenant. “That’s ditto for me too, Mister LeBlonde.”
“Shit, I must be getting soft in my old age,” LeBlonde frowned, “I’m beginning to like you two clowns!”
Lieutenant Bourne and Sergeant Mills started laughing at the obvious effort it took for LeBlonde to keep from smiling.
Lieutenant Bourne ate very little during supper, and then went to his room early to change into clean, sweat-free clothes for the night. Duc Co did-40
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n’t very often allow the luxury of sleeping in shorts or naked. Rarely would a night pass when the North Vietnamese failed to mortar or send an infantry probe against the camp. The enemy would leave Duc Co alone only after a big fight, and even then it would only be for a couple of days. Duc Co’s strategic position straddled the Ia Drang Valley, which was a natural invasion route into Vietnam through Cambodia, and had been used over the centuries by Chinese hordes. The NVA could easily leave their bases in Cambodia, travel the short three thousand meters to Duc Co, and return to their sanctuary before daylight.
Paul slipped through the back door of the teamhouse wearing only a cut-off pair of black Vietnamese peasant pants and his pistol belt, which held his 9mm pistol and his Randall knife. He walked slowly in the dark, feeling for the row of sandbags that surrounded the structure. When he felt the cool burlap bags he climbed up to the top row and took a seat.
A cool breeze coming from Cambodia blew against his face. Paul felt the hair on the side of his head brush against the top of his ears. His mind left him on the sandbag wall and traveled over space to Malibu, California . . .
He was walking on the beach towards the familiar outline of Point Dume against the skyline. Salt spray filled his nostrils as bubbling ocean waves rubbed against his ankles. Paul looked back down the stretch of beach and saw a young boy trotting toward him. He had been aware of the kid for the past five minutes. Paul changed his attention to the top of the cliff that bordered the ocean to his right side and saw his girlfriend, Linda, standing on the very edge of the rocks high above him. They had both been invited to a beach party and she had decided to stay up on the cliff while he went for a run along the beach. Paul smiled as he watched her spread her tanned arms up over her head mimicking the famous pose of the statue called Victory. Linda always allowed her imagination to carry her into many make-believe worlds, which was one of the reasons why Paul loved her so much. She was never boring and was very capable of entertaining herself.
Paul loved Linda more than anything on Earth. He thought that he had caught her eye, and he waved as she turned her head slightly and stared out across the open ocean. Paul slowly started climbing the steep path back to the cliff-top surfer party, avoiding patches of ice plants. Paul slipped a little on the rocks and glanced back down at the sandy beach. The boy who had been behind him was looking up the surfer’s path at something above Paul.
Linda had sprung from the edge of the cliff, executing a beautiful swan dive. She landed with a soft thud on the sand two hundred feet below. Paul leapt from the perch he was standing on and hit the sand running toward her, leaving only his toe prints to mark his path.
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Linda’s body released itself from all earthly attachments by marking the dry sand around her with a spreading wet spot that originated from her crotch as the muscles that controlled her bladder relaxed. Paul was witnessing his first encounter of a human death, not a staged movie death for a television plot but the death of someone whom he had loved without any restraints.
Paul’s ears recorded voice
s rolling over the edge of the cliff far above him with one soprano rising and separating from the other. “Hey, guys! The dumb bitch jumped!” The words echoed over the water and faded. “Shit! This electric wine sure is heavy stuff!” A face appeared over the cliff edge. “Hey, bitch!
Next time ask what you’re drinking!” Giggles from many throats followed the youth’s last statement down to the beach.
Paul had heard about electric wine before. Some really strung out surfers would lace wine with LSD-25. It would give one hell of a shock to those who drank even a small amount of it. Sharp pieces of rock cut through the palms of his hands as he climbed straight up the side of the cliff, causing blood to form into paths on the undersides of his arms and begin to coagulate in his underarm body hair.
The fingers of Paul’s right hand wrapped over the top edge of the rocky cliff.
The blood streaking over his body, and the hate outlining his face, terrorized the party group on the cliff top into nonmovement—like a rabbit confronted by a huge snake. Paul’s eyes focused on a five-foot-long piece of dry driftwood that had been placed near the edge of the fire the stoned surfers were sitting around.
Paul picked up the wood and swung the club until there were no more targets remaining upright. He limped over to the spot on the cliff where Linda had been standing only a few minutes earlier and dropped his chin down against his chest.
A small group of beachcombers and joggers had begun gathering in a tight circle around Linda’s body. The boy who had been behind Paul on the beach had removed his windbreaker and was placing the bright orange jacket over her upper body. Paul jerked his eyes away from the death scene and rested them on the rolling water that spread out before him. The first of many tears escaped from a corner of his eye. A scream formed somewhere in his lower diaphragm and raced up his throat, bursting out between his teeth. The people on the beach shivered and looked up to search for the origin of the horrible man-scream.
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