by T. E. Grau
“Who’s they?” Medrano said.
“The fucking lollipop guild, Medrano,” Morganfield said, writing figures on his clipboard.
“Hey, fuck you, man.”
“Keep your voices down,” Chapel said in a hushed tone, before walking back to the Hmong. He was edgy, tense. The men felt it.
“I was just asking,” Medrano said to Render. “Why he got to talk to me that way?”
“Spooks gonna spook,” Render said.
Medrano shook his head and readjusted the rifle in his hand, muttering curses in Spanish.
McNulty was the closest of the fire team to the tree line, where the Hmong were hoisting the square cabinets into the lowest, thickest branches and lashing them tight, black circles inside each meshed cube facing out toward the valley.
“Speakers?” McNulty said, pushing up the front of his helmet with his index finger. “Why the fuck did we bring speakers way out here? We doing a Sunday school broadcast for the heathen commies?”
“Did he say speakers?” Render asked Broussard.
“Maybe we having a concert,” Darby said. “Invite in all of the out-of-towners, show ’em some good ol’ American pie, and blast them to ever lovin’ Jesus.”
“In the middle of a fucking forest?” McNulty said.
“Jungle Woodstock,” Broussard said.
“With no stinkin’ hippies,” Medrano said.
“Maybe the fight comes to us,” Render said. “Maybe it’s on its way right fucking now, and this is some sort of…protection or something.”
“Forcefield,” Medrano said, nodding sagely, thinking back to his comic books.
“How would that make sense?” Broussard said to Render.
“What out here make sense, Cray?” Render said. “This ain’t regular military. This all irregular, you dig? I don’t know, man… We caught up in something weird.”
“You see those two mountains?” Morganfield said, walking up to the soldiers.
Everyone looked at the twin peaks, through which that burning river flowed the night before.
“A good portion of the entire 276th Regiment is holed up just behind that ridge and in the next valley,” Morganfield said with a casualness normally reserved for a breakfast order.
“Holy shit.” Render brought his rifle to his shoulder and ducked down.
“Righteous,” Darby said with a grin.
“There’s a thousand gooks behind them mountains?” McNulty’s voice rose an octave.
“How do you know that?” Render asked.
“Because that’s what we do,” Morganfield said. “Know.”
“A thousand fucking gooks?” McNulty was nearly screaming.
“Give or take a dozen,” Chapel said, rejoining the group. “And keep your voice down..”
“Sir!” McNulty said, moving quickly toward Chapel, who frowned at him. McNulty lowered his voice. “Sir, I-I don’t mean to overstep, but—”
“Every step you make is an overstep, PV2,” Chapel said.
McNulty swallowed that, which made his face flush. “Be that as it may, sir, but the gooners don’t have a 276th Regiment. 274th and 275th, but there’s no such thing as the 276th.”
Render looked at Broussard, genuinely impressed with McNulty for the first time since they’d met.
“Are you through?” Chapel said.
“Yes, sir,” McNulty said. “I guess I am.”
“Okay, now that you’re finished with the primer on formation classification of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, please allow me to report, Private Second Class McNulty, that extra-agency recon has discovered that along the back side of the ridge and dug in over in the next valley is the 276th Regiment of the NVA.” He glared at McNulty, who found something interesting about his boots at that very moment. “This fun group of well rested and fully outfitted boy scouts are planning on joining their brothers and sisters in the fight against the United States military and our ARVN allies as soon as they breach the border, which they will in a matter of days, just in time for Tet. Remember Tet, gentlemen? Do all of you here remember Tet?”
The men nodded, each recalling in their own way the Tet Offensive three years prior in ’68, when eighty thousand NVA struck a hundred targets simultaneously, killing four thousand Americans in a matter of days. It was a blitzkrieg of slaughter.
“We’re not going to let that happen again,” Chapel said. “Ever. We’re out here to win this goddamn thing, on their turf, taking the fight to the heart of where the enemy finds care and comfort. We’re bringing the horror to their bedrooms, bathrooms, war rooms, and hospitals.”
The group was quiet, processing this.
“Sir?” Broussard said to Chapel.
“Yes?”
“I think it’s time you told us why we’re out here. Specifically.”
Chapel took a deep breath and exhaled, then nodded to Morganfield, who approached with a round steel canister, painted bright red. He set it on the ground, opened it, and from inside lifted out a recording reel and held it up for view. “Gentlemen, we are here to deliver this.”
“What is that?” McNulty said.
“Magnetic audio tape,” Morganfield said.
“We gonna play them some good ol’ country music,” McNulty said, “and blow their zip minds?”
“This is most certainly not a music tape,” Morganfield said. Chapel was silent, arms crossed across his chest, watching everyone’s reactions.
“See, country ain’t music,” Render said to McNulty. “I told you, dummy.”
“What’s on that tape, sir?” Broussard said.
Chapel didn’t answer. Still working the process. Gathering intel.
Broussard clenched his jaw and two fists, fighting back anger, frustration, and the sickening ball of fear that had been growing in the pit of his stomach for days. He pointed a finger at Chapel. It shook as it jabbed at the pale face standing across from him. “You tell us, goddamn it. You tell us just what the fuck we’re doing out here, and why you marched five strangers across the border to feed us to a thousand VC waiting behind a mountain.” Broussard was breathing hard. He was scared, but the fear made him feel strong. Standing this close to the unknown, without a tether, he had nothing to lose.
The men were surprised, and by the identical look each of them fixed on Chapel, for the first time in the entire operation, they seemed to be standing as one single unit.
Chapel nodded, as if waiting for this, and seemed to fight back a smile. “Okay,” he said. “Okay then.” He unlocked his arms and motioned the group forward. “Come close, gentlemen.”
The men formed into a tight semicircle, Broussard the last to join.
Chapel regarded each face in turn. “I don’t work for the United States Army. Not anymore.”
None of the men seemed particularly surprised, but finally hearing it aloud did stir something in each of them akin to anxious wonder. They were all now officially off the books, with everything that carried with it.
“But I do still serve my country, running my own PSYOPS department.”
“See, I knew it,” Render said. “Boss a spook!”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call me a spook,” Chapel said seriously, then smiled. “But now that I think about it, that is the nature of our mission.”
The men laughed nervously.
“Some background,” Chapel said. “We’ve known for years that the VC were moving from Vietnam into Laos to lick their wounds, retrain, and generally arm themselves to the eyeteeth with the latest and greatest Chinese hardware to roll off the factory floors of Shanghai. But Laos is Laos, and subject to sovereignty that takes them outside our theater of war, and therefore outside of our official rules of engagement. So naturally we’ve sent no troops to chase down Charlie other than those flying American aircraft in an attempt to bomb these bastards back to the Pre-Cambrian Age. This, of course, didn’t work, as air power is messy and is about as precise as firing a shotgun to kill a spider, and the majority of our unconfirmed bu
t easily assumed kills were civilians whose relatives then took up arms to fight with our enemy against the monsters who dropped fire from the sky on an unengaged populace. Because of this, more unusual measures were needed, and not necessarily those condoned by the government or the military brass of the United States.”
“This is an illegal mission?” McNulty said.
“Give the man a cigar!” Render said.
“What about killing another human being is legal to you, Chicago?” Darby said.
Chapel held up the tape. “Gentlemen, we are out here to relay a message to the 276th Regiment, and this,” he tapped the reel with his finger. “This is our message.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
“Don’t you mean hear,” Broussard said.
“No, you’ll see.”
“When?” McNulty said.
“Sundown,” Chapel said, walking away from the men. “When the ghosts come for us all.”
31. Somewhere Along the Highway
“Wake up, Broussard.”
I’m dreaming, because I’ve heard that before. I’m in an aquarium inside a jeep rumbling through a river of mud.
“Wake up, Broussard.”
I’m flying over the jungle, and Chapel’s in the other chopper, looking out into the night, directing without a map.
“Wake up, Broussard.”
It’s the man from the bar. He’s wearing sunglasses and standing on the ground outside the open fuselage door. Below those blacked out lenses, his teeth peer out from between his thin lips, and laugh at me, each tooth in turn. “I thought I lost you there for a second.”
I wipe off my mouth and sit up, the reality of everything slowly sinking back into me. I’m sick as shit.
“What’s happening?” I say.
“We’re here,” he says.
He helps me get out of the chopper and stand on smooth grass, feeling for my legs and taking it on faith that they’re down there. Everything around me looks just like it did before, but I recognize nothing. I don’t know where I am.
The man stands in front of me, and hands me something. I take the object and look down at it.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“What do you think it is?”
I hold it out at arm’s length, pointed at his forehead. “I remember now,” I say.
“You going to be all right?” he says, not the least bit thrown by the .45 caliber barrel pressed against his forehead.
“I don’t know.”
He raises his eyebrows up over his sunglasses and waits. I lower the gun, and scratch absently at my face with it.
“Which way?” I say.
The man turns and points to a hillside, the tall grass blowing in the slight breeze. “Follow the trail.”
“I don’t see one.”
“You will. When you get close enough.” He looks at me, noting the vomit on my clothes, the slack of my jaw. “You going to make it out here?”
“Not really.”
He nods. “Retirement withdrawal.”
I shiver, feeling cold from the inside out.
“Take care of yourself, Broussard,” he says before heading back to the chopper.
“I will.”
“And thanks for what you’ve done. For your country. And for, well…”
He doesn’t finish, because he doesn’t have to. We both know it’s bullshit, all of it everywhere, and only about cashing checks on each and every side.
“I wish I could promise a ride back, but…” He lets that hang there, too, to make sure I know exactly where we stand. “We were never here in the first place.” Good little soldier.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, and shoulder my pack.
The man nods, climbs back inside the cockpit, and closes the door. The blades begin to spin, whipping up its own private hurricane that nearly sends me airborne. The chopper ascends into the sky and is gone, the departure echoing off the granite faces that stare down at our silly drama with disinterest. None of us wave goodbye.
I walk toward the tall grass, and without much of a search, I find a worn patch of ground, leading up into the hill country, lorded over by mountains ringed in a beard of silken white clouds.
I part the grass and touch feet to trail. The green closes in behind me, as if I was never here.
32. Retour du Fantôme
There’s something in these trees, hiding under the water of the rice paddies. Something closing in on me, and it’s not Black Shuck. It’s something worse.
The foot trail winds, and takes me through flooded fields and lakes coated with lily pads and legions of dragonflies. Flowers smell of perfume, and the wet air keeps it close to the ground. The pathway cuts up terraces and across narrow bridges built for one traveler at a time. This is ancient country, and it watches me, whispering messages to the things in the trees and under the water. I’m thirsty, but I dare not drink anything out here. Something will climb inside me if I do.
After what could be days but is probably only hours, I walk up a hillside on a narrow but precisely cut and hard-packed trail that zigzags up the incline through a series of switchbacks. The trail wasn’t noticeable from below, expertly disguised by low growing foliage lining the track. You’d only find it if you were on the path.
I climb the hill, sweating and spent, and find a mini-plateau that seems to be cut right out of the side of the mountain. The land is smooth clay the color of polished rust, supporting a compact village of sturdy Hmong huts. Each dwelling is raised on stilts, with a small porch protected by a railing of thick bamboo, and a set of steps leading to the ground. In my fever, I can vaguely recall bayou shacks, hovering over the swamp or occasionally dry land that quickly regresses into marsh with each heavy rain. Laos always did remind me of Louisiana, but for some reason Vietnam never did. Bangkok reminded me of nothing I’d ever seen before, or wanted to see again. But Laos always carried a hint of home, and filled me with a mix of strange longing.
I look up and down at the precisely arranged rows of houses, six on each side of the central clearing. It looks like military housing. The porch of the last house at the far end creaks under a heavy weight. I glance down, and see a great black shape sitting patiently just above the small staircase. Black Shuck stares back at me, its expression unreadable. It traveled ahead, knowing where I’d end up. It was no longer chasing, but waiting. For some reason, I’m not scared.
A man emerges from the largest hut and leans forward on the bamboo railing. He’s old and gaunt, deeply tanned skin covering tight muscle and knobby bones. Sandy white eyebrows furrow down low over far grayer eyes, now sunk deeper into the additional lines covering his skull, marking his days like thin cuts in a cracked leather belt. But those eyes shine like they know that secret still.
It’s Chapel.
I open my dry mouth to recite the words I’d committed to memory after tracking down the book for months. Once I finally laid my hands and my eyes on it, I burned those words, that ending, into my mind. I never knew if I’d have a reason to speak them aloud, but I never knew anything about my life since I left the bayou.
“And sometimes through life’s heavy swound
We grope for them!—with strangled breath
We stretch our hands abroad and try
To reach them in our agony—
And widen, so, the broad life-wound
Which soon is large enough for death.”
Chapel grins, something genuine and filled with just a touch of proud surprise. “You knew the ending after all,” he says, his voice a note lower, but still clear and strong.
“No, I had to learn it,” I say.
Chapel nods slowly. He always knew what I was saying even when I didn’t come out and say it.
“What are you doing out here?” I say.
“I could ask you the same.”
I shake my head, and take a step forward. Shaky now. Always shaky. I’m not sure how far I should go. Not sure how he feels, or how I d
o. Hmong tribesmen, dressed in civvy clothes, are posted up all over the clearing, Chinese-made AK-47s resting over shoulders and in the crook of tanned arms. The spook’s army. He collects one everywhere he goes.
Chapel steps down from he porch, walks up and wraps his arms around my shoulders, bringing me in for a tight hug. Still strong. I press one arm around the man’s back, then grimace. Chapel releases me.
“You hurt?”
“Nothing major.”
Chapel nods. “Let me get a look at you.” Sharp gray irises inspect my face, then pull down his brow into a furrow. “Your eyes,” he says.
“Different now.”
“Yes they are.” He appraises me again. “Come inside.”
“Do you see it?”
Chapel glances at me. I gesture to the last house in the village. Nothing is there.
“Come on inside,” Chapel says, taking me by the shoulder.
I walk with him into the hut, but not as the good soldier entering the bunker, but as the hunter entering the den of my prey. I’m not sure if Chapel knows this, and don’t care. He’ll find out soon enough.
33. Rest Home for Wandering Souls
I’m seated on the ground, a cup of tea and a platter of fruit in front of me. Mangos, papaya, dragon fruit, wild haired rambutans, and a single orange the size of a grapefruit. I wonder about that orange, just for a second, but then realize that there would be no way he’d know. I finish a pitcher of water in one long gulp, which makes me feel sicker and just as thirsty.
A Hmong woman and a man stand in front of me, with various children clinging to their legs and peeking out at me. The adults are glaring, the children just stare. One of them makes a face at me, rolling his eyes into his head and showing his lower teeth. Chapel returns from the other room with a bowl of steaming rice, spiced with curry and lemongrass. He places this on the table, dusts off his hands, and clears his throat.