Dragon Lady

by Gary Alexander

  Until I smell the cologne. Remember Hooverville? It’s the same potent stuff that stung my eyes there. It overwhelms my cookery.

  I hold my nose, yet I can still follow my held nose to the front drapes and see the source. He’s outside, hand on chin, checking out his new home, Madge’s former home.

  I recognize him. Seeing him jogs my memory; I will recognize his voice too. He is every voice calling out from the Hooverville hovels but one.

  As I approached the end in The Land of the Living, when pain would not permit me to sleep at night, I’d go downstairs and watch the tube. Infomercials reigned in post-midnight programming and my new neighbor was on often. He sold everything that the Hooverville voices sold. I came to think of him as the King of Paid Programming, the Mother of all Slicky Boys. I don’t recall his real name, but to me on the nocturnal tube he was Slick.

  Slick is casual in slacks and pullover. He has a ready smile and clean-cut face that makes him easy to trust if you don’t know better. He’s in his 40s and has the countenance of a former big man on campus.

  “Do you like corn dogs?”

  I’m used to the cologne now. “Not my all-time favorite,” I say.

  “Tater Tots?”

  “Likewise.”

  “My freezer compartment is crammed to the gills with them. Where do I get something decent to eat?”

  No hello, goodbye, kiss my ass. Slick has no interest in anything or anybody but himself and his problems.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Here? Where’s here?”

  “The Great Beyond.”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds, probably a first. “Yeah, where the hell am I?”

  “What’s your last memory?”

  Hand on chin again, he says, “Let’s see. I was in the parking garage. I live in a top floor condo.”

  “Lived in a top floor condo,” I happily interrupt.

  “I’m getting into my SL500 and out of nowhere there’s a gun against the side of my head. This deranged old boy said my investment seminar people took him for every cent he had. That’s the last I remember.”

  A pot-bellied guy with a buzz cut and a pockmarked neck comes out the door and says, “Sir, I found some more chow in the pantry and on shelves in the garage. MREs and C-rations.”

  He’s the owner of the other voice I heard in Hooverville, the recruiting sergeant.

  “Sarge, keep looking. I can’t eat that military shit.”

  “Sir, this is really good chow if you give it a chance.”

  “Goddamnit, I said keep looking!”

  The old sergeant’s face droops. He backs inside.

  I ask, “How’d you and him hook up?”

  Slick looks at me. He’s afraid. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “Why is the sergeant here?”

  “That I don’t know. He’s just here. He told me he was fragged in Afghanistan by a soldier he’d recruited. He’d promised the trooper he’d have stateside duty if he signed on the dotted line. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  Before I walk away, I say, “I’ll explain all in my free seminar, lunch on the house, choice of chicken or fish.”

  I hear Smitty screaming inside his house.

  What now?

  ***

  MPs swarmed outside the Annex, a platoon of them in fatigues, wearing pistol belts and steel pots, carrying M-16s. They’d formed a perimeter, checking and redirecting traffic. Serious business. A routine day was shaping up at The Fighting 803rd.

  No PFC A. Bierce. When had I last seen him? If morning reports fail to go out daily, it isn’t long before red flares go up. Captain Papersmith was out too. Big surprise there, too, so I took the opportunity to rummage through the papers on and in Bierce’s desk.

  Nary a scrap of Jesus of Capri. His manuscript had gone with him. Bierce kept file copies of recent morning reports in a basket. The latest was several days ago. In the text, PFC A. Bierce had reassigned himself to the 802nd Liaison Detachment at Fort Huachuca, Arizona.

  If I recall correctly, my research on the 803rd had proven that there were no liaison detachments, including the 803rd. PFC Bierce, the rumormonger extraordinaire, the rascal had disappeared himself via his typewriter. Bon voyage, Ambrose III.

  At the doorway, Ziggy and I watched the MPs. Their jaws were set as if they were guarding Fort Knox. Last night’s steady vibration on the Annex windows had powered up to an audible purr. Since juice in the immediate neighborhood hadn’t been restored, the Annex had no electrical noise competition.

  We watched Colonel Lanyard get out of a taxi, slamming the door hard enough to rock the little Renault. He went into the Annex. A moment later, Captain Papersmith slunk out and hailed a motorcyclo. I told Ziggy about my evening with Mai.

  “This romance shit, you love her, Joey?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Is she Catholic?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Buddhist?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “She VC?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “She a spy?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Them technical books of hers, what’re they for?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “She sharp at math?”

  “Not as sharp as you, Zig. What’s 49,271 times 1104?”

  “Up your nose with a rubber hose, Joey. Your commie girlfriend, where her and her sis, Quyen, come from, how come she won’t open up to you?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How many guys is she banging besides you and the captain and the colonel?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Zig. You make her sound like the town pump.”

  “How many?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t pay her shit and you don’t tell her nothing and you don’t promise to take her home to America like Papersmith does. What’s in it for her?”

  I almost said she loves me, too, but that’d be stupid, even after last night’s unparalleled intimacy. I still didn’t have a clue what motivated her, what she felt about me or anybody else.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You’d give her the H-bomb recipe if you had it, wouldn’t ya?”

  “If she asked nicely while unclothed or in her Dragon Lady outfit. Either, or and anything in between.”

  “You got my blessing, Joey. Ain’t nobody perfect.”

  I’d parked the Jeep around the block. If it wasn’t stolen already, we planned to drive it in to Singh and see what he’d give us for it. But curiosity was killing us two cats.

  We walked across to the Annex. The MP at the door raised his rifle to port arms. He had a bowling ball gut, buck sergeant stripes (three chevrons), and a strawberry of a nose.

  “No admittance.”

  “You’re accusing us of being the enemy? We look like Vietcong to you, Sarge?” I said cordially. “We’re assigned permanent party here at the 803rd.”

  “Clerk typists,” Ziggy added, digging at an armpit.

  He stared at Ziggy. “You’re a typist?”

  “This man has the nimblest fingers in the United States Army,” I said.

  The MP laughed.

  “‘Accuse. To affirm another’s guilt or unworth; most commonly as a justification of ourselves for having wronged him,’” Ziggy droned.

  The MP looked at me. “You two drinking this time of the morning?”

  “We’re teetotalers. Ambrose Bierce the First and my partner speak in tongues. I have a gift in there I have to get. Be a pal, Sarge.”

  “Sorry, boys. Officers only. Big powwow.”

  “We’re in civvies. We could be captains or colonels. You don’t know.”

  “You two? Whip some ID on me.”

  “Left it in my other pants. A big powwow on what?”

  The MP said, “Me and Westmoreland are tight. He usually clues me in. Not this time. My feelings are hurt. They must’ve accidentally forgot me. Get los
t and go ask Westy your own self.”

  Once you say I cannot go into X, naturally I need to snoop in X in the worst way. I said, “It’s my kid sister’s birthday. I forgot her present. It’s in there on my desk. A good buddy in there, Chief Warrant Officer Ralph Buffet, wrapped it for me. If I don’t mail if off today, it won’t make it home in time.”

  The MP grinned. “She got terminal cancer and won’t see another birthday, right?”

  “How’d you know?” I said.

  “Five minutes and only you, wiseass,” he told me. “Retrieve your present and no dinking around. Otherwise, my tit’ll be in a wringer. I got ten days and a wakeup before going to the Land of the Big PX, and getting my discharge to boot. They’ll cut me some slack if I lose my concentration just this one time. It’s no secret I got me a ferocious short-timer’s attitude.”

  “Congratulations on your walking papers, Sarge. How long’ve you been in?”

  “Nine long years. Got a deputy sheriff job lined up in my hometown.”

  Shades of my former colleague who’d had the same intentions, who woke up two weeks later at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Him and Sarge here were birds of a lifer feather.

  “Outstanding. I envy you, man.”

  “Five minutes and one second, I lock and load, and sashay on in for you.”

  I hustled through the door and heard hooting and hollering and clapping. It seemed to be an impromptu gathering, the oddballs facing General Whipple, who stood at the main console.

  “Hip-hip-hooray,” the research botanist said, lifting a paper cup, followed by more hooting and hollering. “It is a record harvest. We have brought in a bumper crop. Kudos to each and every one of you men. You who have toiled so diligently in this fertile field.”

  Colonel Lanyard was at the general’s side, hairy tree-trunk arms folded, not a happy man. If he was brutally pissed regarding the Jeep, too pissed to savor this special occasion, whatever the hell it was, he’d made my day.

  Evidently, Cerebrum 2111X and CAN-DO had hatched its golden egg much earlier than expected. I advanced cautiously. Nobody paid me the slightest attention. They were drinking PX champagne. I was tempted to crash the party, which was growing even louder and happier. They were talking computer jargon. I couldn’t make out a word of their Swahili.

  Not a total loss. I’d flimflammed myself into the Annex, honing my hornswoggling skills. Practice makes perfect, you know.

  I swiped a bottle of the bubbly and walked out. The MP checked his watch and said, “In thirty seconds, you were a dead man. Where’s your sister’s present?”

  I gave him the bottle and slapped my hip. “In my pocket. It’s small, an engagement ring.”

  The MP took a swig and laughed. “Pervert.”

  “Best of luck as a civilian, man, you lucky son of a bitch.”

  He hoisted his rifle. “Take care. Your day will come too.”

  Ziggy and I went to the corner phỡ shop and had breakfast.

  “The captain,” Ziggy said after we’d eaten.

  “What about him?”

  He said, “Me and you, Joey, we oughta go shake the lowdown truth outta him is what we oughta do.”

  “Excellent plan, Tonto. Head ’em up, move ’em out,” I said, leading the way to the Jeep, discordantly humming the Rawhide theme song until Ziggy said he’d hurt me if I didn’t quit.

  We drove to the GiGi Snack/Snatch Bar. Lo and behold, the captain was at his favorite table.

  “Small world, sir,” I said, sitting uninvited.

  “A world that is crumbling at my feet. Among other things, the colonel’s Jeep was stolen and he’s on a rampage. You can’t trust these ungrateful subhuman little people, them and their petty thievery. We’re here at great sacrifice to preserve their freedom, Private, and their hands are in our wallets nonstop.”

  He said “Private” with such permanence that I knew our promotion to private first class was fanciful. “Sir, your crumbling world? I don’t understand.”

  “Our mission has been accomplished. The data and the personnel responsible for proving it are secured by MPs.”

  Playing dumb, I asked, “It has? They are?”

  Captain Papersmith gave me a basset-hound look, flinched as he gulped a jigger of Rhum Caravelle, chased it with Ba-mi-ba, and cleared his throat. “A sad tale.”

  Ziggy had meanwhile wandered off to a newsstand, leaving me to enjoy the captain’s sob story all by my lonesome. If it included the scoop on the Annex, it’d be worth the ordeal.

  “Private Joe, if I’ve given you the impression that I actively participate in decision-making or information processing and data acquisition via CAN-DO, it is merely an illusion.”

  “But you said the mission’s accomplished, sir.”

  “My world is dissolving,” he said, his voice fading.

  I resisted the desire to wrap my fingers around his pencil neck and squeeze, as I desired to do to CWO R. Tracy. Alas, violence would not accomplish zip except land me in Leavenworth. Fact was, I felt semi-sorry for the captain. Horse-faced Mildred must have been holding a blowtorch even closer to his family jewels.

  He finally continued, “Upon restoration of power, Cerebrum 2111X’s operation produced grim data. While Colonel Lanyard notified MACV security forces and directed repulsion of the guerrilla attack on the city’s utilities, the CAN-DO personnel worked all night. That computer is devilishly fast, faster than our wildest dreams. It is the most powerful electronic brain in the history of mankind. Nothing will ever surpass it.”

  “Wow.”

  “I attended a fateful meeting prior to slipping out and coming here.”

  “Oh?”

  He sneered. “It degraded into a celebration.”

  A Suzy Wong served a rum refill to the captain and me a cold Ba-mi-ba.

  “The documentation has already been routed. To MACV HQ, CINCPAC, the DoD, the JCS, and ultimately―”

  He leaned forward. “―The White House itself.”

  “Double wow!”

  “Joe, the war is ending in two months.”

  “The VC are marching on Saigon?”

  The captain slapped his forehead. “No, you dolt. We won.”

  “Oh. Uh. Good.”

  “I see you’re skeptical, but there is no mistake. We presently have 74,893 troops deployed in-country,” Captain Papersmith said. “Cerebrum 2111X and CAN-DO has calculated that the break-even point is 136,812 American armed services personnel, a figure projected to be achieved on 15 October 1965. Victory is assured at that point, on that date. We will have an overwhelming manpower advantage.”

  Ah, hindsight. Gotta love it. Coincidence of coincidences, the fifteenth of October 1965 was the date of the first arrest in the U.S. of A. under a new law prohibiting burning one’s draft card. It wasn’t long before Brother Jack incinerated his own.

  “Oh, swell, sir. Fantastic.”

  “The overall force ratios, the ordnance tonnage multipliers, the negative psychological exponents―”

  “Exponents,” I said. “This is damn serious business.”

  “―the confrontation vectors, the war-of-attrition efficacy percentile, the escalatory intersects. Numbers don’t lie. There is no mistake. You may wonder why the computation was done here instead of in the safe confines of the Pentagon.”

  CWO Buffet had covered it with us, but I said, “Did cross my mind, sir.”

  “Because we’re ten thousand miles nearer the action. We have insights that can and did fine-tune the raw data.”

  “Oh, I get it now.”

  “The statehood situation is the clincher. It remains a top secret to anyone but the highest levels in the White House and the Pentagon, but we’ve heard the good news through the grapevine.”

  “Good news, sir?”

  “The statehood rumor is no longer a rumor. It is the most prominent negative psychological exponent. It substantially lowered the troop break-even point. Machinery is in progress to make South Vietnam our fifty-first state. Proposals to
Congress are being secretly drafted as we speak. A Constitutional Amendment is required. That is icing on the cake, the strongest confirmation of the accuracy of the CAN-DO numbers. The process is well advanced. I have it on good authority that rice has been chosen as the state grain, we’re that far along.”

  Thanks to one quarter as a Constitutional Law major, I knew that an Amendment wasn’t required. Article IV, Section 3, if I’m not mistaken. “That’s great, sir.”

  “You’re unaware of my background, Private. My prior duty station was as an ROTC instructor at a major university. I have a mathematical background, an MS in it. In conjunction with my ROTC curricula, I taught remedial mathematics, plane geometry and elementary algebra to jocks.

  “The 803rd has the highest average educational level of any unit in the army, many personnel with graduate degrees too. Everybody is a commissioned or warrant officer, except you two and PFC Bierce. Incidentally, where is Bierce? I haven’t seen him in some time.”

  I pondered the captain’s math skills. A Mai connection there?

  “Saw him not an hour ago, sir. Hard at work at his desk.”

  “Then where are his morning reports? They’re days in arrears.”

  “I’ll ask him, sir. That’s intolerable. There’s no excuse for it. Ziggy and me, after we become clerk typists, we won’t shrug our morning report duties. Scout’s honor.”

  The captain didn’t respond. He hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

  “So that’s what the celebration in the Annex was for, huh? When’s the VV Day party?”

  “I did not take VV Day seriously when I arranged for the restaurant and the announcements. How wrong I was. It is not a unanimous celebration, Private Joe. I could not bear to revel with them. Isn’t it ironic?”

  “Isn’t what ironic, sir?”

  “That I did my part to save my Mai from communist enslavement and my success is hastening my separation from her. I don’t know how to tell her.”

  Mai isn’t your Mai, she’s my Mai, I barely resisted saying.

  The photo in the Dien Bien Phu book of the French being led off by the ants popped in my noggin. “You’re absolutely, positively certain we’ve won, sir?”

  Captain Papersmith sighed. “Private Joe, it is the ironically sad truth. On October 15, the enemy has no choice but to capitulate.”