by Dale A. Dye
NEW YORK
Cleveland Herbert Emory, Senior, ignored the jackhammer pounding behind his eyeballs and slowly strode to a position behind the podium bearing the Emory Technology corporate seal. He’d drunk an overly large quantity of whiskey last night and been rewarded this morning with the puffy eyes and haggard look he wanted, but the hangover was a killer. He poured a large draft of cold water from the pitcher on the podium and reassured himself—as he’d done during a long night of soul-searching—that the gain was worth the pain.
An untidy clutch of microphones arrayed before him picked up the rustle of the papers he pulled from his pocket and sent a sound like the rattle of dry leaves in a cold wind through the speakers mounted around the room. He closed his bloodshot eyes against the sudden glare as TV cameramen fired up their lights, but there was time for a quick scan of the reporters in the front row. As promised by his PR staff, the network and national newspaper heavyweights had been lured onto a beat that was normally covered by their financial or business specialists.
The story would get the major play it deserved and Emory Technology—even in this grotesque period of venomous antiestablishment rhetoric—would be seen as a company with a heart; a company whose CEO, like so many thousands of other parents across the nation, had lost his son in pursuit of an American goal. And when the war was over—when the breakneck impetus of necessity was gone and some semblance of sanity returned to the military-industrial marriage—such goodwill and sacrifice would be remembered. He cleared his throat and began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve asked you here to share a very personal and very tragic time in my life. The telegram I have before me arrived yesterday. It’s from the President, and it informs me that my only son, Private First Class Cleveland Herbert Emory, Junior, United States Army, has been killed in action in Vietnam.”
As a hush fell over the room, Cleve Emory pinched the bridge of his nose as if to get a grip on his emotions, to stem an impending flood of tears. He was rewarded with the stutter and whine of motor-driven cameras. Only agony or ecstasy made headlines. Everything else was wasted.
“As a businessman, I’m unused to public airing of personal problems or tragedies. The business of business is business...and nowhere in the world is that more true than in this great nation of ours. Mixing business affairs with personal affairs is a recipe for disaster in most cases. Yet I feel compelled—at this moment of intense personal grief—to make my thoughts and feelings known to everyone in America. I feel compelled to let those other fathers and mothers across the land who have lost sons in defense of our nation know that I am one with them. No matter what position, privilege, or power I may have—no matter how much money I may have or what material possessions separate my situation from that of the poorest in this land—as I stand before you today with this telegram in my hand, I am one with them. And I feel their pain as I feel the agony of our President who is trying to bring this tragic war in Vietnam to an end.
“I am taking this unusual step because there is something important demonstrated in my son’s death and I want to ensure that message is clear. There are those on the streets, on college campuses across the land—yes, even in the highest levels of government and industry who deplore the war in Vietnam as a travesty of American ideals being fought by the poor, the uneducated, and the underprivileged. I am here to tell you that my beloved son Cleve was none of those things. Yet he enlisted, a buck private, ignoring all the privilege and position that could have been his, and volunteered to go to Vietnam. He phoned me before he left for Southeast Asia just to ensure I understood why he was going. Dad, he told me in the very last conversation I had with him, I’m going to Vietnam because I think it’s my duty. The war might be right or it might be wrong, but that’s not the point anymore. My son told me he believed the real issue was repaying a debt to the country that had given him so much. He said he could no longer stand by and see young Americans his age go to Vietnam—to fight and possibly to die—while be stayed at home. In his mind that was neither fair nor honorable...and my son was an honorable man.
“I wanted to share his thoughts with you now that he’s no longer able to voice them, and I wanted to appeal to you to convey a message to the American people: As long as we continue to raise and nurture young men like Cleve—like the silent majority of our sons and daughters—this great nation will survive and prosper. No war, no pestilence, no fracturing of our social and moral structures, will ever destroy America.”
Cleveland Emory dropped his eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the presence of the uniformed military officer at his shoulder right on cue. A brigadier general, flown in from the Military District of Washington, stood ready to deliver the ancient symbols of a warrior’s destiny.
“Mr. Emory, you have the deepest sympathies and most sincere condolences of the Commander-in-Chief and of the entire United States Army.” There was a muted rumble as still photographers scrambled for position. Cleve Emory kept his eyes downcast until silence returned and then faced the general with grim reluctance. He accepted the Purple Heart in its blue velvet box and then held both arms out for the flag folded into a tight triangle of star-spangled blue. Nodding to acknowledge the officer’s rigid salute, he slowly turned, the Purple Heart perched on the folded flag, and faced the blinking barrage of strobe lights. It was a triumphant moment, but Cleve Emory forced his face into a solid mask of grief and remorse.
An aide from his PR staff finally retrieved the articles and placed them on a long, low table for public display. With a silent nod, the aide signaled to the dean of the assembled reporters that his boss was now capable of fielding a few discreet questions.
“Mr. Emory, Pentagon records had your son listed as Missing in Action. Was his death somehow related to that status?”
Cleve took another deep drink of water and cleared his throat. “I was notified about three months ago that Cleve had not returned from a patrol and was listed as missing. Since then, the Army has informed me that the patrol—or what was left of it—has been found. No one survived.”
Another reporter stood at the rear of the room. “Did this patrol have anything to do with the recent incursion into Cambodia?”
Cleve shot a glance at the brigadier general and got a discreet but clearly perceptible nod. “I’m told this is no longer classified information, so I guess I can reveal that Cleve volunteered to go with a very dangerous reconnaissance mission across the Cambodian border to spot enemy sanctuaries for the follow-on border crossing operations. All this had to be kept very secret, naturally, and that is the reason Cleve was officially listed as missing when his patrol was ambushed.”
The same reporter remained on his feet and outshouted his competitors. “Does it bother you that your son lost his life operating in a country that’s nominally neutral?”
Setting his jaw and jabbing a finger at the reporter, Cleve put some venom into his voice. “I’ll tell you, mister...I’ll tell all of you...that I feel about that just the way Cleve must have felt. And the way I’m sure most of our soldiers must feel when the enemy escapes to safety across a border after attacking and killing Americans or allied forces. I feel damn glad the President had the guts to take their sanctuary away for once. I feel damn proud my boy was the bearer of the kind of message we ought to be sending to all enemies of democracy: You can run but you can’t hide!”
There was a smattering of applause from the senior staff members of Emory Technology but the reporters just blinked and scribbled in the face of Cleve’s tirade. He took a deep breath and painted on a pained smile for the grey-haired female reporter who rose with the next question.
“Mr. Emory, will there be formal services for your son? And where will he be buried?”
“Ma’am, you’re taking part in the only services there will be for my son. You have to understand, he was killed in very violent combat and the...his...body lay out there in the jungle for quite some time before it...before what was left of it...was recovere
d. I have seen his remains and...well, l don’t want him remembered that way. He’ll be buried without funeral in our family plot on Long Island, next to his mother.”
A senior vice president for corporate public relations moved to end the question period. Cleve started away from the podium when a hunky specter in granny glasses unfolded from a chair in a far corner of the room and barked out a final question. “Mr. Emory, I’m sorry for your loss—but doesn’t it all seem a bit ironic, sir? Here we are in the headquarters of a corporation that makes an enormous profit in war-related industries, discussing the death of your son who was killed in the war your company is supporting?”
There was a loud collective groan and a few muttered curses from some of the reporters, but Cleve Emory silenced them all with a wave of his hand. He returned to the microphones and chewed on his lip for a moment, holding his head to one side and then the other as if pondering the fate of his ill-mannered inquisitor.
“It’s pretty easy to see which side of the fence you’re on, so I won’t look for an accurate quote, but let me tell you something for the record. Emory Technology does not advocate war or wish to profit from death in any way, shape, or form. Emory Technology advocates only America and its rightful position as the leading democratic industrial power in the world today. Any and all things we can do to ensure that, we tackle with vigor. Now, sometimes you have to fight for what you believe in, for what’s right, and Emory Technology is not about to back away from that fight…not Emory Technology, not Cleveland Emory, Senior, and not—God bless him—Cleveland Herbert Emory, Junior who lost his life doing what he thought was right!”
The spattering of applause in the room gave Cleve a second wind and he was about to give the assembled reporters a few more pieces of his mind when an aide approached and whispered in his ear. The press would have to do what they would with what they had. The President was on the phone wanting to express his personal condolences and gratitude for Cleve Emory’s brave stand in backing America.
AN HOA
Pulling his dark eyes reluctantly away from the lime-green snake that slithered out of a cut bamboo section near his hide, the Nung warrior glanced down the jungle hillside and into the Marine base camp that sprawled across one end of the An Hoa basin. Heat waves shimmered from the sticky asphalt of the helicopter landing pad making visibility difficult. Even with his razor-sharp vision it was hard to distinguish detail, yet he was sure the bamboo viper was a sign. His target would finally appear and he could strike as ordered after three long days of waiting.
He heard the whine of turbines and the flatulence of steel-stiffened helicopter blades as they chopped into the humid air. A pair of fine American binoculars quickly picked out the one helicopter in five parked below his perch that was coming to life. Three Marines stepped out of a droopy tent nearby and began to walk toward the aircraft. As he’d done so many times during his long vigil, the Nung pulled a laminated picture out of his shirt pocket and dropped his eyes to the smiling face of his target.
Another glance through the binoculars and… yes, his target was the tall man at the end of the line moving toward the helicopter. The snake was a good sign, reliable as were all such signs in the jungle once you learned to read them. When the Marines boarded the helicopter and the turbine noise grew to a scream, he rolled over on his back and slid a high-explosive warhead into the B-40 rocket launcher. He’d modified the weapon’s sights with a handmade bamboo extension that allowed him to more accurately lead moving targets. He would probably not need the special sight at this range, but it was his way to be thoroughly prepared.
A patient study of flight patterns around An Hoa led him to this firing position and it was as perfect as any that could be found in the jungle surrounding the Marine base. The helicopter carrying his target, a Marine captain who commanded a reconnaissance unit, would pass less than 50 feet over his head. And when his rocket pierced the metal skin of the aircraft—like an arrow through the heart of a tiger—there would be another sun in the sky. And he would be rich, richer than any man in his village had ever been or ever would be.
Rising to his knees, the mercenary warrior steadied the RPG launcher and watched the helicopter fill his sights like a huge dragonfly. When the nose of the aircraft touched the second spike of his sight extension, he pressed the trigger and felt a slight jolt as the rocket roared away, burning brightly through the blue sky. Shock waves from a huge fireball forced him to the ground briefly, but he was up and running south before all the flaming debris fell into the jungle.
It would be a week, maybe two or perhaps three before he could reach the contact who held his money, but the Nung warrior was patient man. He knew the colonel well and the colonel had always been an honest man.
DANANG
Sergeant Spike Benjamin pushed the proffered pack of stateside Marlboros back across the desk and waved a hand at the clerk who was typing his rotation orders. “I’m too short to be smoking filter tips, man. I’ll just look around for someone who’s got about half a Camel.”
The clerk cracked open a bottle of correction fluid and glanced up at the tall Marine NCO who wore the same lopsided grin whether he was facing a flustered private or a bellicose brigadier general. The guy didn’t seem to take anything short of an AK round between the running lights as much to worry about.
“You Combat Correspondents got more shit than a Christmas turkey. The Freedom Bird don’t leave for another twenty-four hours and you ain’t gonna be on it unless I finish typing these orders.”
Benjamin leaned across the rickety field desk and growled. “That’s hours, man! It ain’t days and it ain’t weeks and it ain’t years. That’s twice around the clock and I’m back on the block!” The clerk lit one of his own smokes and pointed at a crude sign hanging over his desk. DILLIGAF, short for Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck.
“Is that any way to act, man? Huh? Ain’t I the guy who wrote the story about you defending the headquarters perimeter when that rocket blew away the officers’ shitter? Ain’t I the guy who gave you copies of the flicks to send back to the World?”
Turning back to his typewriter, the clerk began to pound on the keys. Guys like Benjamin kept everyone from going bat-shit. He deserved a little extra effort. “Come back in an hour. I’ll have your orders ready and you can start checking out of this shit-hole.”
Benjamin pointed his finger and aimed down his thumb. “I’ll hold you to that, man. If you need me, I’ll be down at the hooch packing my trash.”
Before he could clear the Headquarters Battalion admin offices, Benjamin was halted by a shout from another of the harried clerks. “How short are you really, Sergeant Benjamin?” It was an old joke but a man like Spike Benjamin couldn’t resist.
“I am so short that when I got up out of the rack this morning, I free-fell for five minutes before I hit the deck!”
At Hooch 13 in the 1st Marine Division rear area, Benjamin knelt by his footlocker and dialed in the combination to the lock that kept his most precious possessions secure when he was in the field. He pawed through the rank stacks of extra skivvies and socks and found his three precious photo albums. Two of them contained examples of his work as a photojournalist at war. It was mostly frontline combat stuff featuring plenty of action and agony. With luck—and some help from the civilian media vets now working back in The World—they might constitute an acceptable resume and get him a good job.
The third album was thicker than the others. It was private, so personal that Benjamin doubted he could ever bring himself to show it to another human being. The album was a diary of sorts, the sole repository of his personal wartime odyssey including all the anger, frustration, and despair he’d built up over two tours running with the grunts. He’d spent long hours combing thousands of negatives, looking for the ones that could never be printed or released because shortly after Sergeant Benjamin shot many of those photographs, someone else shot the subjects—and killed them. The stuff in the third album was intensely
personal, but if the first two albums failed to impress jaded news editors stateside, some of those photos in his personal collection surely would. It was his ace in the hole.
Benjamin slipped a thumbnail beneath the binding of the album cover and removed a single opaque negative jacket. He moved to a shaft of sunlight streaming into the hooch and held the 35mm negative up to examine it as he’d done so many times in secret when no one was around to see him do it. It was one of the frames from the reconnaissance mission he’d run with Willy Pud and his team. And he risked court-martial or something worse if anyone discovered that he’d kept the single image from all the others he’d exposed when they’d discovered that Salt and Pepper were real and not just some jungle myth.
If he really needed juice back in The World, Spike Benjamin could always sell the only remaining picture outside the Pentagon’s top secret vaults of two American turncoats fighting with the enemy in Vietnam. Combat had taught Sergeant Benjamin that the only real trick is to survive.
MU GIA PASS, SRV
The female doctor with the twisted teeth told Cleveland Herbert Emory, Jr. that he had been unconscious for seven days. She said it would likely be another four or five weeks before he could be moved to a better hospital. That was all he could comprehend before the pain shorted out his circuits and he slipped back into a troubled sleep during which he screamed, fearful of huge boulders falling from the sky.