Black Market

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “Just a minute…” Kirkpatrick reached back and removed his wallet. He handed the woman four large-denomination Vietnamese bills and smiled. “Woods can’t be the only hero today.”

  The woman started crying and tried kissing Kirkpatrick’s hand. “Whoa! We don’t need any of that slave shit here!”

  Woods smiled.

  “Come on!”—Shaw slammed the door shut—“or you two can walk!”

  “Fine with me!” Woods had had just about enough of Shaw’s mouth.

  The truck pulled away, leaving them standing at the side of the road. They were less than a click away from the main gate to the compound, and Woods enjoyed walking through the Vietnamese city. He knew that Simpson would stop in the shanty town and pick up his supply of dope before returning to the compound. He and Kirkpatrick would probably beat them back to the company.

  * * *

  The two Vietnamese businessmen sat in the small room of the bamboo shack that they called their office. The older one looked at his watch.

  “They’ll be here. Simpson must get his resupply.”

  He dropped his shirtsleeve and looked over at his partner. “I’m not worried about the black. Losing the truck full of medical supplies is what’s bothering me.”

  “We are fighting a war and I am sure the general will understand that we have done our job.”

  “He only understands success!”

  “Then we’ll give him success!”

  “Where are we going to get more medical supplies on such short notice?”

  “Simple! The fat supply sergeant.”

  “That would be stupid! He would suspect us if we used him again so soon.”

  “He is a greedy pig. He sees only money.”

  The older Vietcong businessman reached up and twisted the black strands of his mustache and smiled. “You may be right!”

  “I am right, and the general will look on us as very competent!”

  “What about the new night sights?”

  “We kept two of them for our unit. We can send one of them to the general, can’t we?”

  The older Vietcong gave his deputy a curt nod.

  The sound of a truck stopping in front of the business establishment halted the conversation. The older man opened a bottle of mineral water and poured himself a small glass. Shaw was the first one to step into the office, escorted by the old woman. Simpson staggered in behind the sergeant and grinned over at his old friends. He thought that they looked like Vietcong, now that he suspected them.

  “How are you today, my friend?” The older man spoke very passable English with a thick French accent.

  “Good! Makin’ money and getting rich!” Simpson played the role well. “Do you have my stuff ready?”

  “Yes and we’re very happy that you’ve increased your order again this week.” The older man smiled and sipped from his glass. “Are you expecting more troops to arrive at An Khe?”

  Simpson had always missed those types of questions before, because his mind had been on drugs and not the military side of the conversation.

  “Yeah, another whole brigade of Air Cav.” He watched closely and saw the older man sneak a quick look at his partner. “Are we going to make some money!”

  “A whole brigade?”

  “Yep … and you had damn sure better sell only to me! I don’t want any competition springing up!”

  “You can be assured that we will keep our word, Simpson. You have done us a great service and we appreciate it.”

  Simpson frowned. “What in the fuck do you mean by a great service? I thought we were businessmen, not diplomats.”

  Simpson had made a major error. The Vietcong had been fighting since after World War II and had developed a very acute sense of survival. The older man sensed that Simpson knew more than he was saying.

  “We are diplomats … for the drug warlords of the Golden Triangle!” The two Vietcong laughed.

  Simpson scratched his head. “Oh … well, get my dope. We have a truckload of frozen meat that’s thawing out.”

  The older man smiled and spoke to his partner in rapid Vietnamese. “The black soldier knows who we are. Kill them.”

  The younger Vietcong smiled and nodded respectfully at the Americans before leaving the office.

  “I told you before that I didn’t want you talking that shit in front of me!”

  “I am sorry, Simpson, but he does not speak English … only French.”

  “And how about North Vietnamese?” Simpson reached behind his waistband for his silenced .22 caliber pistol. Sergeant Shaw was the first one to see the younger Vietcong returning holding a folding-stock AK-47 in his hands. The grin on the VC’s face told Shaw that the man was enjoying what he was about to do in the extreme.

  The older man smiled and didn’t even attempt to protect himself. Simpson thought that was strange until the first burst from the AK-47 tore into his back.

  Shaw tried holding his hands up in front of him in a feeble attempt at stopping the armor-piercing bullets. “Please … oh … please don’t kill me!”

  The younger businessman laughed out loud and lowered his aim so that he could gut-shoot the American.

  Kirkpatrick walked slowly past the Vietnamese whore and grinned. He felt the front of his pants getting tight. She saw the movement and moved her chest seductively. “Shit! I could use a little pussy right about now.”

  “So could I, but I gave that woman all my money.” Woods adjusted his CAR-15 to a more comfortable position over his right shoulder.

  “Fuck! I forgot”—Kirkpatrick frowned at Woods—“you made me give her all of my money too!”

  “I made you?”

  Kirkpatrick smiled. “Maybe she’ll give us a little on credit.”

  “Don’t hold your fucking breath.”

  The whore had heard both men say the word fuck and thought that she was going to get a little afternoon business. The military police from the American compound had put a lot of pressure on her operation after it got dark, and she had to make her money off the soldiers during the day. She reached over and ran one of her long fingernails over Kirkpatrick’s solid erection pressing against his thin pants.

  “Oh shit!” Kirkpatrick groaned. “This is cruel and unusual punishment!”

  “Sorry, buddy, I’m broke.”

  “What fucking kind of NCO are you?” Kirkpatrick removed the woman’s hand. He was afraid that he would cum in his pants.

  “A broke one … I just told you.” Woods grabbed Kirkpatrick’s arm. “Come on, don’t torture yourself. We might be able to sneak back here this afternoon, if we can deliver that meat early enough.”

  “Yeah! Let’s find Shaw.” Kirkpatrick threw the whore a kiss. “I’ll be back, love!”

  Woods saw the truck parked down the alley and nudged Kirkpatrick. They had just made the turn down the narrow passageway when the distinctive crack of an AK-47 stopped all of the vendors’ chatter. Kirkpatrick slipped his M-16 off his shoulder and looked around, trying to locate the source of the sound. Woods flipped his CAR-15 around and crouched down, waiting for the owner of the weapon to show himself. The Vietnamese kids playing in the alley, in front of a small shack near the parked deuce and a half, scattered like a covey of quail. The boy who had been hired by Shaw to guard the truck jumped down from on top the cargo and started running directly toward Kirkpatrick and Woods.

  “Over there!” Woods pointed at the shack two doors down from the truck.

  Kirkpatrick was faster than Woods and reached the rear of the truck first. He slid around the street side of the vehicle to the front bumper and Woods lost sight of him as he passed the rear of the truck between the street and the narrow sidewalk.

  The older man was the first one to leave the building, catching Kirkpatrick off guard and not ready for the armed younger man. The Vietcong could see Kirkpatrick from the shadowed doorway and made the fatal mistake of assuming that he was a lone GI leaving a whorehouse. He opened fire. Kirkpatrick pulled his trigger in a death
grip and hit the older Vietcong in the right hip.

  Woods leaned back against the thin bamboo matting that fronted the building he was near and saw a middle-aged Vietnamese across the alley pointing at him. He reacted and stepped away from the building, firing a long burst into the dark entranceway of the small shack. The young Vietcong leader fell out of the shack and landed on the AK-47 he held in his hands. Woods located the man who had pointed at him and fired a short burst. War was not neutral once you had picked sides. Woods moved instinctively and stepped into the open doorway, firing. He changed magazines and fired again into the darkness of the shack before rushing inside.

  Simpson lay on his back and Shaw was on his stomach with his hands locked over the layers of fat. The look of extreme pain was frozen on his face. Woods whirled around in a low crouch and searched the area for any more VC. He moved with extreme caution back to the open doorway and peered out into the empty street. He glimpsed an MP gun jeep blocking the highway entrance to the alley.

  “Don’t shoot in here!”

  “What’s going on?” the MP sergeant called out from behind the left front bumper. He was extremely nervous, not knowing what had happened. The South Vietnamese MP teamed up with the American MPs yelled out instructions for the civilians to stay inside their houses.

  “A couple VC zapped Sergeant Shaw and Simpson. I think I got both of them … one’s lying out there in the alley wounded.”

  The MP sergeant spoke to his VNMP just as another gun jeep with an infantry escort arrived. “You stay where you’re at until we can clear the alley!”

  “ROGER!” Woods slipped back inside the shack and took up a prone position to wait.

  The MPs checked the alley, searching each of the shacks as they worked their way toward Woods. He could hear the South Vietnamese barking orders. Slowly the adrenaline wore off and he felt the fear creeping into his conscious mind.

  Woods heard the jeep approaching and the men moving near the wall of his shack. “Are you all right in there?”

  “Yeah.” Woods swallowed.

  “OK … we’re going to come in … OK?” The MP was being very cautious and played it professional. He had been a SWAT Team cop for Miami and knew how to approach a house with an armed person inside.

  “Sure … there are some dead GIs in here.” Woods remained lying on the matting until he could see the MP.

  The MP sergeant was outside and approached Woods as soon as he stepped out. “What happened?”

  Woods briefed him and got an approving look from the older NCO. “You did good.”

  “How’s Kirkpatrick?” Woods tried looking around the front of the truck and the MP stopped him.

  “He’s dead.” The MP could feel the tension leave Woods’s muscles. “Sorry. Was he a friend?”

  “My teammate.”

  “Oh. Let my driver take you back to your unit.” The sergeant understood. “I’ll handle the rest, and I promise I’ll take good care of your friend.”

  Woods nodded and then looked up at the truck. “Let me get my gear first.”

  “Sure…” The sergeant nodded for the driver to back the jeep up and wait for Woods.

  Woods climbed up over the rear railing of the truck and picked up his light backpack along with Kirkpatrick’s gear. He glanced in the front cab, saw Simpson’s black bag, and opened the door. It would be interesting to see what was in it when he got back to the bunker.

  Arnason and Captain Youngbloode had both gone over to the brigade headquarters for a planning meeting with the operations officer and his staff. The MP jeep dropped Woods off in front of the recon company orderly room and left to go back and pick up the NCO.

  Woods hung his gear up on the wooden pegs next to his bunk and exchanged his helmet for his black BAD NEWS drive-on cap. He shoved Simpson’s black bag under his bunk and removed his weapons cleaning kit from its storage place. The inside of the bunker was at least twenty degrees cooler than up on the roof, so he decided on staying inside to clean his CAR-15 and wait for Arnason and the captain to return. He knew that there were going to be a lot of questions asked.

  Woods ran the cleaning rod down the barrel and changed the dirty carbon-coated patch for a clean one without solvent. He saw that his hands were shaking and he tried stopping it by opening and closing them. It didn’t work. The day’s events were starting to replay themselves with a clarity Woods could do without. He could see Kirkpatrick slumped on the packed dirt. It could just as easily have been him. Kirkpatrick had died because he was a faster runner than him. Woods shook his head slowly from side to side and stared at his submachine gun. A fat tear dropped from his eye and landed on the oiled receiver before rolling off onto the floor. War was shit, plain unpurified shit.

  Woods felt his body slump, drained of all its energy, and he lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. Sleep was a tool the body used to protect itself from an overload, either emotional or physical.

  Nineteen-year-old Buck Sergeant David Woods slept.

  The sound of muffled whispers filtered down through the open trap door. Warner and Koski were on the roof talking to Sergeant Arnason, who had just returned from the headquarters staff meeting. Rumors were flying all around the base about the incident in the village.

  Woods sat up on the edge of his cot and looked out of the open gun port to see if it was still light outside. He had slept so deeply that he felt dizzy.

  “I’m glad you’re awake.” Arnason’s head filled the roof opening. “Captain Youngbloode needs to talk to you.”

  Woods nodded and staggered to his feet. He braced himself against the four-by-four bedpost and wiped his face.

  “Are you all right?” Arnason’s voice sounded worried.

  Woods nodded again and went out the back door. He poured some water in the basin and washed the sleep from his face.

  “Kirk’s dead.” Arnason leaned against the sandbags.

  “I know.” Woods’s voice seemed unwilling to continue. “I was there.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  Woods dried his face and blinked a couple of times between deep breaths. “Let’s get this shit over with … I’m tired.”

  A half-dozen strange jeeps were parked in front of the orderly room and loud voices could be heard coming from Captain Youngbloode’s office. Arnason paused outside the entrance and read the bumper identification numbers from one of the infantry battalions on the far side of the base. The drivers had been standing together smoking. They stopped talking and glared at Woods, who was still wearing his BAD NEWS cap.

  “I wonder what this is all about?” Arnason adjusted his CAR-15 nervously and frowned.

  The lieutenant colonel yelling in Captain Youngbloode’s face stopped and turned around when the two NCOs entered the building. “Is he the one?”

  Youngbloode shook his head and smiled a grin that said, “I don’t believe this shit.”

  “Well!” The battalion commander glared at Woods and then at Arnason. He didn’t know which one of the NCOs was the one he was looking for, but he knew the soldier was from the recon company.

  “Let’s talk civil, Colonel, and then maybe we can get some answers—”

  “Don’t you tell me to talk civil! Dammit!” The lieutenant colonel’s face was turning deep red. “I am civil! You can bet your bla—your ass that I wasn’t the one who ambushed and assaulted fellow Americans!”

  “I don’t know if what you’re saying is true or not, but what I do know, sir, is that your white ass isn’t going to be standing in this black-assed captain’s orderly room unless you start acting like an officer.” Youngbloode’s words were spaced perfectly and the tone of his voice enforced what he was saying.

  The battalion commander looked around at the clerks and the company first sergeant and saw the looks of contempt written on their faces. He nodded his head. “You’re right, and I apologize. Let’s go somewhere private and talk this out.”

  “Good. My office will do.” Youngbloode pointed to the open door and nodded for A
rnason and Woods to join them. The clerk nearest to the office slipped in a couple of extra chairs and pulled the door shut behind him. He smiled over at his buddy and raised his eyebrows. This was the most excitement they had had since the rocket attack.

  The voices coming through the wall of the office were too low for the clerks and the first sergeant to hear, but they could tell from the tone that the conversation was heated. The door to the orderly room opened and closed, drawing the senior NCO away from his eavesdropping. A very distinguished South Vietnamese officer stood just inside the tin-roofed building holding an ivory swagger stick in his gloved right hand. The first sergeant looked at the officer’s collar and saw the double stars on each side.

  “ATTENTION!”

  The clerks struggled to their feet confused, until they saw the major general standing by the door. Captain Youngbloode stepped out of his office expecting to see the brigade commander and was as surprised to see the general as his first sergeant had been.

  “Sir, Captain Youngbloode reporting!” Youngbloode stood at the position of attention and held his salute.

  The major general took his time returning the salute and casually walked a little farther down the aisle before speaking in a perfect American English dialect. “I am looking for a young American sergeant who was on Highway 19 outside of a small village named Khu Pho. I was told that I could find him here.”

  “A lot of people seem to be looking for him, sir.” Youngbloode could see that the general was not in any mood for levity and added, “He’s in my office, General.”

  Woods left the captain’s office followed by the battalion commander and Arnason. The general stared at the young sergeant and slowly smiled. “Are you the soldier who rescued a woman and a young boy today?”

  Woods looked over at Youngbloode and then at Arnason before answering the general. “There were nine people, sir.”