Đức tapped his index finger against his lips and winked. 'And don't carry a weapon outside unless you intend to use it. Stow it somewhere you can get to easily. Take separate routes home and don't drive carelessly. You don't want to get stopped. If you do, go out shooting because they'll probably torture and execute you for having those guns.'
'They're executing people?' Phượng said.
'I guess,' Đức shrugged, 'but don't worry sister. They might keep you alive.' He grinned, his eyes fixed on her chest.
'Shut up!' Tuấn snapped, 'ignore him, Phượng. He's trying to scare you because he doesn't want you to say where you got the guns if you're caught.'
'I would never tell!' she protested, glaring at Đức.
'Make sure neither of you do. Anyone who talks is a traitor. There's only one way to deal with a traitor.' Đức held up a pistol, looking Tuấn then Phượng in the eye.
They fetched their satchels. Đức handed her the first pistol. She aimed it at the wall; imagining the strength of the recoil. She decided to head straight for Huy's place. Feeling a strange mix of anxiety and a sense of accomplishment; she'd made good on her promise to her cell. It was undeniable that she was now a fighter in the resistance.
Timothy
16th March, 09:45
The few remaining hotel staff smiled, bowed their heads and in their limited English they wished Tim luck. They were losing their last customer. Tim pressed $40 into the hand of the doorman as they shook hands. He had stayed on when most the city fled and taken on most of the hotel duties. He'd brought breakfast to the room, done the laundry, as well as anything else needed. Tim realised with embarrassment that he didn't know his name.
Nancy walked beside him to the waiting car. He wore his lightweight blue shirt; leaving the top three buttons undone showing his shark tooth necklace. A soldier held open the rear passenger door of the black Mercedes. A miniature Chinese flag adorned the corners of the bonnet. Nearby stood an officer flanked by two rifle-wielding guards. Bulky armoured cars were parked front and rear of the Mercedes. From the topside hatch of each APC protruded a soldier wearing goggles and large earphones over a black helmet.
Nancy conversed with the officer in Chinese. The officer shook his head throughout. She faced Tim, her mouth downturned. 'They won't let me accompany you to the airport.'
'Then I guess this is goodbye.' He manufactured a half smile.
She wore her hair down; the mild breeze blew a few strands across her face. She took his hand and forced a smile while her lower lip quivered.
Tim pulled her against him. He felt her body tremble. 'You'll be okay, Nancy.'
'Bich.'
'What?'
'My Vietnamese name is Bich. I use Nancy for foreigner.'
'Oh. Nice to meet you, Bich.'
Nancy's giggle morphed into a sob. Her arms tightened around him. 'I'm scared what will happen,' she whispered.
The officer barked something. Tim didn't need to understand Chinese to get the gist.
Nancy stepped back; wiping her tears with two fingertips. Her cheeks stained black from running mascara. 'You must go now.'
'I know. Thanks for... everything. We'll get in touch when this is all over.' He averted his gaze. He'd soon be on a plane to safety while she faced an uncertain future.
The officer pointed to Tim’s rucksack which the doorman held. One of the soldiers pushed the boy aside and snatched the bag. Unzipping it, he emptied the contents onto the pavement.
'Hey, there's fragile things there!' Tim protested.
The camera was passed to the officer. He yanked the case open; turning the camera about in his hands he found the memory card and removed it. His other belongings were spread out and picked through; clothes, flip-flops, the Che Gueverra zippo he'd picked up from a street seller, vitamin tablets, ray bans and three paperbacks he'd brought. The soldier picked out the digital voice recorder; handing to the officer who snapped something at Nancy.
'He wants to see your other memory cards,' she translated.
Tim sighed. He'd expected as much. Pulling his wallet from his pocket he took out two cards and handed them over. A soldier snatched them and the wallet; flicking through it while Nancy engaged with the officer.
'He is saying no time to check memory cards. All are confiscated. Also the voice recorder.'
'But-' Tim's protest was cut short as the soldier who'd rifled through his wallet jostled him toward the car. Placing a gloved hand on top of Tim's head he pushed him into the car. The door slammed shut. Tim pressed his hand against the tinted glass and mouthed goodbye to Nancy.
A tear trickled down her cheek. The officer yelled something at her. She closed her eyes; sobbing openly. Tim pulled the car door handle. It only opened it a fraction before the angry soldier shoved it closed, then thrust his face to the window. Wide eyed and teeth bared, he thumped his fist against the glass.
Tim's belongings were picked up and tossed into the backpack. The soldiers then took to their vehicles. The driver of the Mercedes was a woman. She stared ahead; not even glancing in the rear mirror. She wore the same camouflage overalls as the men, but no helmet. The one who had stood guard at the door moved into the front passenger seat. The officer ducked into the rear seat beside Tim, shoving the backpack toward him.
The engine rumbled to life. Tim put his palm against the window as they moved off. He could see Nancy's shoulders heave as she cried. He turned away. It wasn't how he wanted to remember her.
The journey back to the airport couldn't have contrasted more with his inbound journey. He passed the same landmarks; the opera house, the five star hotels and the shopping streets of District one. There were no throngs of motorbikes, no Vietnamese pop music blaring from vendors’ carts, or the repetitive jingle from ice cream vendors. The most common sight were checkpoints. The small convoy passed all without incident. Guards stood to attention and saluted the black car; perhaps assuming it carried a senior official.
Tim’s three companions remained silent, but the soldier in the front cast the occasional sideways glare over his shoulder. The UK was neutral, he wondered what manner of treatment he'd have if it were otherwise.
Even with the relatively slow speed of the armoured escort, he figured after five minutes into the journey that they were half way to the airport. The convoy slowed for traffic lights which showed a countdown of 31 seconds to change to green. He wondered why they bothered waiting. There was no other traffic.
A brilliant flash compelled him to instinctively throw his forearm across his eyes. A tremor shuddered through the car. The sound of the explosion seemed to come a second later. The same instant he felt small shards of glass dig into his arm and chin. A force like a sudden hurricane wind pressed him back against his seat. The next moment an opposite force thrust him forward. His face slapped the back of the front-seat headrest. From behind a screeching protest of metal grinding against metal. Pressing his eyelids closed he heard a cry of alarm. Was it his own? Then all was still.
He lowered his arm cautiously. Wisps of smoke drifted into the car from where the windscreen had been. The driver looked toward him, her eyes wide, her pale skin flecked with brown shards of tinted glass. Tiny rivulets of blood poured from a dozen wounds in her face. Her short black hair matted red, stuck to her cheek and forehead. He thought her dead; then her lips parted. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She croaked a single word, barely audible. Tim gawped; still trying to comprehend what happened.
The soldier in front of him was slumped forward in his chair. The officer appeared uninjured. The cap had fallen from his head. He stared at Tim wide-eyed and open mouthed like he was trying to fathom how his guest had caused such havoc.
A shrill scream came from somewhere outside. The sound echoed like it was underground. His senses starting to return, Tim realised the armoured vehicle in front was on fire. Thick black smoke wafted from the hatchways which had been blasted open. The scream came from somewhere inside.
Ratatatatat
!
Right away, Tim knew the sound was gunfire. He heard the ping! ping! of bullets on metal. He turned in his seat. The camouflage pattern of the second armoured truck filled the Mercedes’s shattered rear window; the force of the explosion from the lead vehicle pushed the car back against the rear-guard vehicle.
Someone ran past; Tim glimpsed their green uniform. The crack of gunfire seemingly all around.
The officer shouted. He'd un-holstered his sidearm. Holding it ready, he sprang from the car; blasting three quick shots from his pistol. He sprinted out of view, his firing joining the chaotic chorus.
Tim turned back to the injured driver. A piece of twisted metal protruded about five centimetres above her collar bone. Her breath was ragged, her eyes begged for help. He shook his head. 'I'm sorry!' He wriggled to the floor between the front and back seats where he hoped to be less of a target. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the sound of gunfire. The wretched agonized scream still echoed from within the oven-like furnace of the lead vehicle. He wrapped his arms about his head.
Raataatatatat! Ping! Ping!
Debris struck him as bullets raked across the car. Another explosion- muted compared to the first. Then triumphant cries of 'Huzzah!'
The gunfire ceased. He could hear voices chattering excitedly. He forced his eyes open. Finding his camera in his hands; unsure sure how it got there. Maybe he’d plucked it out of the bag before the first explosion, or instinctively grabbed it as an object of comfort as he ducked down.
He looked up at the driver. She was slumped to her right; restrained from falling only by her seatbelt. The upholstery of the seats was torn and riddled with bullets. He had no doubt the other occupants of the car were dead.
The assailants sounded close. The door near his head which the officer escaped through was still open, leaving him vulnerable. He pulled himself onto the rear seat; stretching his arm toward the handle.
The door by his feet swung open with a protesting creak and a clatter of broken glass raining onto the road. Tim's head snapped about to face the threat. At first he saw only the gun aimed at him; then the grim young face of the man behind it. The gunman shouted something Tim didn't understand. He held up the camera in one hand and an empty palm with the other
'I'm a civilian! Photographer! Press!'
The barrel of the weapon twitched to the left three times; indicating to exit the vehicle.
He clambered out and raised his hands. Camera still clutched in one hand. He cowered like a Tortoise trying to swallow his head between his shoulders. He was confronted by three men; all training weapons on him. A fourth approached the far side of the car, peering through the shattered windows, examining the occupants.
They attackers wore lime green uniforms with red tips on the collar and brown leather belts. All were hatless and carried the distinctive AK-47 assault rifle. Tim knew them to be Vietnamese soldiers.
'American?' one asked, lowering his weapon.
'British! I'm press, reporter!'
Two soldiers conversed hurriedly in Vietnamese, then grinning lowered their weapons.
'British,' one said, smiling.
'Yes. Civilian.'
'British. Mister Bean.' The soldier grinned, his comrades laughed. They walked away, chuckling and yapping. A fourth soldier was kneeling next to the body of the officer who'd fled the car. He took the officer’s pistol and began to rifle his pockets.
Still reeling from the horror, Tim surveyed the devastation. The rear half of the lead vehicle was a blackened mass of twisted steel. Smoke billowed from the hull with a stench like burning hair. He covered his mouth and nose with one hand and stumbled away. There were bodies in the street. A Chinese soldier lay nearby, his body riddled with bullets. A little further a Vietnamese soldier lay unmoving. There seemed to be no other survivors of the convoy. At least the screaming had stopped. The rear vehicle looked intact but wisps of smoke drifted from an open hatch on the roof.
Remembering the camera in his hands he snapped photos; bodies on the ground, burning wrecks, Vietnamese soldiers picking through the remains- salvaging weapons. Even without a memory card his camera could store a few dozen images.
'Hey! Photograph!' A barefoot Vietnamese soldier shouted, advancing he waved his comrades to join him.
'It's okay, I'm press photographer!' Tim implored, raising his hands.
The soldier made a square with his index fingers and thumbs and wiggled one index finger, like he was taking a photo.
With the destroyed vehicles smouldering behind them, the four soldiers posed like gangsters with their weapons. Grinning and chattering they were exuberant in victory. Tim took several photos. The soldiers then jogged away. One even waved to him as they ran. Another stopped by the body of their fallen comrade. He seemed to say some words, then following his comrades down an alleyway they were gone, and Tim was alone.
Not sure what to do, he sat on the curb away from the putrid smoke. A helicopter gunship passed overhead. Tilting to one side, inspecting the scene below. He thought about fetching his bag from the back of the car wreck. The bodies in the front seats put him off the idea.
It was no more than ten minutes before the first Chinese vehicles came into view. A half dozen armoured vehicles with small gun turrets and long, thin barrels. Breaks squealed. Troops disembarked; rushing to the sides of the street, pressing their bodies against walls, training their weapons along rooftops and down the alleyways.
Soldiers ran to the wrecked vehicles with cries of outrage and urgent commands. Tim found himself again looking along the barrel of a rifle. The soldier on the other end of the weapon shouted something. Tim held up the camera and tapped his index finger on his chest.
More armoured vehicles arrived. Soldiers hammered on the gates of the nearby buildings; those which weren't opened within a few seconds were blown open. Tim watched teams of soldiers dart into buildings with weapons poised.
An officer strode to him. Dressed in the same battle gear as his men; only the markings on his brown epaulettes and lack of a rifle setting him apart.
'You! Camera!' The officer waved his fingers in a 'come here' motion
With a sigh, Tim handed over the camera. Examining the LCD screen on the camera, the officer's nostrils flared. He bared his teeth. He snarled something in Chinese. Tim decided it probably wasn't wise to have kept the image of the jubilant Vietnamese. The soldier guarding Tim slapped his hand atop Tim’s head and pushed him down so his face squashed against the tarmac. His hands were yanked behind his back. He felt plastic cable ties tightening around his wrists.
He was pulled to his feet and marched to one of the armoured vehicles. Pushed inside, he was forced to sit. The door was kept open. Two young guards stood with firearms at waist height. The faces of both were ashen; they were probably recruits, scared of their first taste of danger. Tim couldn't see much, but he could hear shouted commands and boots pounding gravel.
It was half an hour before the officer returned; joined by another in a camouflage baseball style cap, and a moustache flecked with grey. The new officer held Tim's camera.
'You took these photographs?' his was voice soft and polite.
Tim nodded yes.
'You were to be deported... Would you rather stay, Mr Campbell?'
The question jolted him like a shock of cold water to the face. He worked his jaw wordlessly; unsure how to respond.
The officer raised an eyebrow, impatient for his reply.
'Uh, sure, yes... If I can,' Tim managed.
'You're free to stay. I’ll have an adjutant arrange the paperwork.'
A soldier pulled him from the vehicle. With a snap the cable tie was cut. Tim rubbed his wrists, which smarted from the constriction.
The officer offered Tim the camera. 'Take photos.' He beckoned Tim to follow him.
Three dead Vietnamese soldiers were laid in a row. One who died in the gunfight and two others which Tim recognised as having posed for his photos. He took pictures of the bodies. C
lose-ups of the faces; their eyes closed and mouths half open in disbelief at their own demise.
'Terrorists,' the officer spat. 'More photos here,' he pointed at the smouldering remains of the first armoured vehicle.
He took close-ups of the point of impact; a hole about the size of a saucer. The bodies of the Chinese slain had been removed, but the smell of charred flesh remained strong.
'More photos, here!' The officer pointed at the remains of the Mercedes.
Tim's hands shook as he tried to steady the camera. Dozens of holes the size of a ten-pence coin peppered the bonnet and driver side door. The seats were stained terracotta. The heat from the burning APC had seared paint off the front of the car. The rear was compressed from the collision. He knew that if he'd been anywhere but on the floor when the shooting started, he'd have died. Despite the heat he shivered, then doubled over and emptied his stomach onto the road. Panting for breath, the stench of burnt flesh assaulted him anew. He retched again. Breathing only through his mouth, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand; noticing some vomit on his camera strap.
Standing straight, he ignored the soldiers who openly snickered. The officer watched him with a frown and offered a cigarette. Tim shook his head. Shrugging, the officer put it between his own lips.
'My name is Major Hu. I studied in the UK. Two years at Portsmouth.' His voice and manner were mild; like they were neighbours chatting over the garden fence.
Tim nodded, unsure how he should acknowledge him.
The officer regarded him for a moment then shrugged. 'You’ll work with us if you're to remain here, Mr Campbell.'
'With you, or for you?'
The Major grinned, showing yellowed teeth. 'It’s the same damned thing.'
'What do you want me to do?' Tim mumbled.
'What you've been doing.' Exhaling a stream of smoke, he gestured to the devastation. 'This is why you are here, no? To capture the reality of the occupation? You'll accompany patrols around the city. See how fairly we’re treating people.'
'Fairly?' Tim gasped, incredulous.
The March of the Dragons Page 14