Red Flags (9 page)

"More seepage, I suppose?"

"That's our story."

"You and I know where that gas is really going, Major. The difference is you think it's perfectly okay."

"I don't condone it. I just think it's ... realistic to expect it."

"The price of operating here."

Gidding exhaled a great sigh. "I really think you're exaggerating the problem, John. Okay, we pour him a concrete slab and call it a tennis court. If that's what it takes to keep him happy, why not? General Westmoreland presented Premier Ky with two prototype helicopters after the premier signed over land for Westy's new headquarters complex. How's our concrete a big deal?"

Ruchevsky frowned. "It's not just the gas. The Chinhs are really pushing it. You want the latest? His wife just cut a deal with some Chinese moneymen in Cholon for them to log hardwoods here in Phu Bon."

The major looked bemused. "The roads aren't exactly secure," he said. "How do the loggers expect to get this lumber out of the province?"

"They've gotten a pass from the local VC provisional government."

"You mean they paid a tariff."

"I mean they bribed the Communists with cash money—dollars we probably supplied."

"Look, John," said Gidding. "I'm not happy to hear it, but it's not any different than what our local merchants do to bring in luxury goods on trucks. They pay Charlie's road tolls and we get to drink Cholon cognac downtown. How do you think barges loaded with Coke machines get shipped around the damn delta intact? Or the huge petroleum depot south of Saigon avoids even a single tracer round from setting it off?"

"Besides the safe-conduct fee, the VC are also getting heavy timbers out of the deal to build sturdier fortifications and bunkers."

Gidding assumed a bored expression and looked at his wristwatch. "I think you're absolutely exaggerating Chinh's situation."

"He's a crook."

"He's a realist. The country runs on graft, if you haven't noticed. Whatever you make, however you make it, you keep forty percent, gift the rest to your superior, and the next guy does the same. We're not here to critique their damn society. We're here to win the war. What's the big difference between us giving them rice and arms and their
taking
some gasoline? We're the sugar daddy."

"Supplies get diverted and sold on the black market," Ruchevsky said. "Not nice but—okay. What's not so okay is that Chinh's biggest customer is the opposition. If you're arguing he's no worse than any of the others in his position, we're in trouble. Good day, Major."

I walked Ruchevsky to his vehicle.

"Meet me back here in an hour. You didn't shower this morning, did you?"

"No, boss. I know the drill."

The less aftershave and deodorant, the better. Then again, no way was I getting close enough for the VC to smell me. John got in his Bronco and drove out of the compound. Checkman came along the walkway heading toward the perimeter.

"You gotta see it, sir. Come quick."

"See what?"

"The house trailer, sir. It's got a real bathroom, air conditioning, kitchen, fridge."

"We're getting a deluxe stateside trailer here?"

"No, sir. The USAID compound next door is."

Every off-duty enlisted was headed over to the big event, as were several officers. An unkempt airman named Lewis came up behind us, trailed by his pet pig.

"Rut, sit," he commanded, and the pig did, sort of. More like flopped. "Good pig," Lewis said, and scaled the wall of perforated steel planks and sandbags. Settling on top, he gave Westy a hand up. More men stood atop a tall bunker.

Westy said, "Not too exposed for you out here, Airman Lewis? I know you're short. You maybe oughtn't ta risk yourself."

Lewis shrugged. "I felt a moral obligation." He tossed his pet a piece of bread. "I'd hate myself if I didn't. I'll be back in the world soon enough."

Westy hooted. "Son, this is the world. Back there, that's Disneyland."

On the USAID side the tennis-playing preppy, now in chino pants and short-sleeved checked shirt, paced in front of their little residence, looking at his watch and peering at the sky through his horn-rims. Mr. Ex-Military, similarly attired, leaned against a post, hand raised to his forehead, shading his eyes. Soon we heard the thump of heavy rotors.

Westy pointed heavenward. "The Shit Hook!"

The Chinook was less than half a mile out, a large rectangle slung beneath it.

The enlisted men stood as the copter hovered and descended, easing the sling earthward. The rotor wash whipped us, raising a growing storm of grit. We all squinted.

"It doesn't take much to draw a crowd in Cheo Reo," I observed.

"No, sir," Westy said. "You gotta take your entertainment as it comes."

At a height of maybe fifty feet, the cables unlatched and the trailer plunged. The onlookers roared and whistled their delight as it came down.

The preppy danced around in agitation but that didn't keep the luxurious quarters from crashing hard into the dry earth with a great noise and a cloud of dirt. Wall panels flew off as the trailer crumpled. Coolant and propane sprayed the air before fizzling out. He flailed his arms and yelled something we couldn't hear over the rotors. The USAID tough guy surveyed the proceedings impassively. He didn't look like someone you'd want to dig you a well.

"Did you see that?" Westy exclaimed. "Did you see?" He smacked palms with another soldier. "That was some shit."

Airman Lewis looked impressed. "Definitely persons in need of guidance up in that chopper."

"I thought that USAID motherfucker what's in charge was gonna stroke out," Westy said.

We all got down and walked back into the center of the compound, the pig following Lewis. Checkman and I trailed after them toward the bungalows.

"What was that about?" I said to Checkman.

"Oh ... ah, that was the latest attempt at delivery. The same ... ah ... accident keeps happening. Third time in a row."

"Almost as good as a drive-in," Westy said over his shoulder. "She-eet, somebody somewhere's got a serious case of the ass for USAID."

"Can't understand why," Lewis replied. "Maybe we should bring them a meat-loaf casserole to console 'em. You know, welcome them to the neighb."

"Now, that's cruel," said Westy. "Really uncalled-for, Airman Lewis. That meat loaf is lethal. You know the survival rules we learned in Basic—don't drink untreated water, don't eat the mess sergeant's meat loaf."

The pig trotted on past them.

 

Our gear lay on Ruchevsky's bunk. Blood expander, dressings, morphine Syrettes, eight pounds of water in four canteens, grenades, smoke—the usual. VC ammo vests that fit high on the chest. Hammocks much lighter and better than our regular issue. Counterfeit NVA boots made on Okinawa for the Forces. My size too. The man planned ahead.

Not so usual: a silenced pistol for each of us and two extra magazines; a very fancy, very sharp knife and sheath; AK-47s (the enemy's assault rifle); and three twenty-round magazines apiece, a fourth already inserted. A heavy weapon and heavy ammo, but it would make the right sound going off in a hostile neighborhood, and ammunition would be everywhere for the taking. That was the only way we could resupply. Officially no one knew we were going or where. Nobody was going to be standing by to rescue us. Under the circumstances it was safer not to announce our intent, or so I kept telling myself.

Ruchevsky packed black pajamas for himself and an NVA pith helmet. It would make the right silhouette at a distance, even though he was too tall and the outfit huge. He offered me several styles of camouflage fatigues. I opted for the tigers. A little baggy, but baggy was okay. We stuffed everything in our packs, including cotton bandoleers containing the long rolls of cooked rice that would be the extent of our food supply. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner—a chunk of coagulated rice pinched off from the roll, VC style. We would even smell native. The radio was one I'd never seen before, a cigarette-carton shape with a weird metal tube for an antenna.

Ruchevsky said, "If we get completely compromised and we're done for, push the red button on the radio."

"That'll put us out of our misery?"

"No such luck. Fries the circuitry. It won't keep us from wishing we were dead."

I tested the radio by calling into the MACV commo bunker and tossed it into my NVA rucksack.

"Party time," he said.

We got in the back seat of Ruchevsky's Ford Bronco.

"Boss," said the driver, a black-haired Montagnard in sports shirt and black trousers.

"Little John," Ruchevsky said by way of introduction, and turned to me. "Little John's a Westernized Montagnard. Hangs out in town. My number one man. Runs my agents and informants. His Jarai name is something crazy, like Pig or Asshole—one of those nasty names Yards use to keep spirits from eating their kids." Leaning closer to me, he whispered with genuine glee, "He's a little shady."

Clever, I thought. If anyone could be trusted to dish the dirt on the Vietnamese, it was an alienated Montagnard.

"Little John, this is Captain Rider."

Little John wore an odd two-fingered glove on his right hand and shook my hand with his left as I leaned over the seat. He held his forearm with his free hand as we clasped, and I reciprocated the custom.

"Don't worry," Ruchevsky murmured, glancing at the glove. "Just a touch of leprosy." His eyes crinkled with amusement, watching it sink in that I had just shaken Little John's ungloved hand.

We slowed at the gate and turned left, going west along Road 2. We didn't pass a single conveyance. Ruchevsky and I rapidly changed into our outfits and blacked our faces. About seven klicks along, Little John pulled up and eased into the brush far enough for the vehicle not to be seen from the road. Ruchevsky bloused his black pajamas in his boots; I taped my pant legs shut to keep out land leeches and biting critters, took up my gear, and stepped into the undergrowth after Ruchevsky. He looked like the world's largest Vietnamese peasant. Little John quickly drove off.

All around us lay steep hills and tight valleys filled with ten-foot-tall reeds and grass. We slithered through and around them, trying not to let them cut or bruise our faces. I followed Ruchevsky, covering the signs of our passage as best I could. He put us on an actual trail.

After going west for an hour along the worn path, we switched to an animal track that took us up a long slope onto the ridge of a high foothill. We followed the ridge and descended to a little outcropping. John signaled a halt. We took up firing positions—him forward, me facing back—and waited.

No sounds. No one following or passing by. The partial canopy dimmed the afternoon light. Ruchevsky brought out binoculars and directed me to look northwest. I peered at a trail below us, clearly visible in a small valley. The tall grass lay parted like someone's hair. Normally the NVA came down out of the mountainous Highlands and plodded east toward the densely populated coastal provinces. But this trail wasn't the normal route of infiltration. It ran north.

I spotted a thatched shelter. A box stuffed with paper stood on a short post outside it. In the shadows, men prepared for the night's march. I couldn't count them. All I caught were glimpses of arms and elbows in the doorway. Two stood outside.

Ruchevsky signaled us closer. We descended toward the trail and approached to within sixty yards of the shelter before going to ground again. Keeping low, we crawled slowly another ten yards and lay still for fifteen minutes, making sure we hadn't been detected. A stream flowed nearby.

Ruchevsky handed me the binocs again. The box on the post held newspapers and magazines. After a while, men in green khaki came out and stood in the failing light, noisily talking and coughing. A dozen North Vietnamese
bo doi,
foot soldiers, ragged and tired. They'd been living rough on the trail for months, trekking south nocturnally through Laos in large groups, then breaking into smaller groups like this one. At some point, they'd crossed into South Viet Nam, Montagnards guiding them through the mountain forests.

After they rested all day at a way station, a new Montagnard guide escorted them halfway to the next overnight hut and handed them off to another guide for the rest of that leg of the trail. As a security precaution, the guides knew the locations of their own stations only. That's all they needed to know—one stretch of trail and its one rest hut.

Finally, the group set out on the night's march. The Montagnard at the front and the last man in the file each carried his assault rifle in both hands. The rest had their weapons slung on their shoulders or across their chests.

They crossed a bridge made of four young bamboo trees laid across the narrow stream, and slipped away into the mass of black foliage. Their upcoming shelter might be seven miles from here; nine if the route of march was easy. They'd arrive well before dawn, rest all day, and repeat the cycle again until they reached their final destination.

We listened for a quarter of an hour to the jungle around us and watched the light fade. When it was nearly gone, we snuck across the trail and retreated up the next gradual slope for a hundred yards, quickly plunging into double-canopy jungle that completely dwarfed us. In an overgrown grove of teak trees, we slung a pair of hammocks close to each other among the vines and moss and bedded down. I buttoned my cuffs and my top collar button and raised my lapels to keep out the mosquitoes and gnats. With my floppy hat pulled low, my ears presented the most tempting targets, but I'd hear them coming, even in my sleep. I propped the AK-47 across my chest and tucked my hands in my armpits to hide them from the mosquitoes.

A torrential downpour began shortly after nightfall. We huddled under the weatherproof cloth of the NVA ponchos, easily protected beneath the umbrella of double-canopy foliage. I signaled that I'd take the first watch. John waved me off. With only two of us camped out, accidental discovery was unlikely. Or, bedded down like VC, we might get a pass. If they did find us, it wouldn't be much of a contest. Ruchevsky opted for audacity: we would take our chances and get some real sleep.