The Cover of War (7 page)

11

A
mai
walked in a daze. She could smell the shipyards: fish, diesel,
filth. She was almost at
Cam
's.
Her sister was the only person in
Saigon
that she could turn to.

It was late
afternoon; she couldn't believe she had spent the day drugged. She pushed away
thoughts of Thi. It was only hours ago that MI had ruined her plan. Triet
should've been locked in an American interrogation chamber, not forcing her to
act like a whore; not threatening to maim a child. Military Intelligence had
ruined everything.
Idiots.

Triet's
right,
she thought.
It's only one night. I can
survive one night.

Ironically,
Triet's new assignment opened another line for reporting Tet. A Pentagon Major
would be a credible source; MACV would take him seriously - but first she had
to get Triet's information out of him. Nhu An depended on it.

Amai stumbled
over the rough pavement. One thing was certain: the constant violence which had
owned Triet since childhood had driven him mad. He would do anything to beat
the Americans; nothing was too much; no price was too high.

Her body was
numb. Triet had revealed his true nature - and it was horrifying.

The aggregate in
the grimy footpath became her focus as she bumped through the foot traffic. Her
mind traveled back in time to a bubbling stream, bright-green rice paddies, and
her family home, standing on its stilts above the monsoon flooded land.    

Homesickness
overwhelmed her.

She thought of
Nhu An - a small, beautiful, energetic child.  

I hate this
war.

She looked up
and saw two Military jeeps crawling toward her. A rush of fright hit her and
she swerved into a narrow lane.

Calm down.

The lane wasn't
really a lane at all; just a gap of a few feet between a warehouse and a
factory. Above, a heavy loom of electrical wires sagged from metal brackets
bolted to the brickwork. The lane felt creepy. Amai stepped up her pace. She
figured the lane would bring her out close to
Cam
's building anyway; a run-down French-colonial of three floors,
which bordered the docks.

Cam
,
she thought.
I need you.

The last time
Amai had seen her forty year old sister, her glossy hair had acquired natural
silver highlights, and the finest of crinkles had appeared at the outer corners
of her eyes.

Cam
was psychic. She lived a strange life of meditation and mantras and
warning people of future dangers, storms, and illness. During the French War,
General Giap had used
Cam
's
remote-viewing skills to gather intelligence. Her ability had been embraced by
the Viet Minh Commanders of the time, but now
Cam
worked as a legman for an undercover spy at Time magazine.

Amai looked back
over her shoulder. A jeep had stopped across the lane; and when she looked back
to the front again, she knew that she had a problem. She had reached the lane's
midpoint, and the scene that confronted her was horrific, but not uncommon.

In a concealed
alcove, a girl-child of about Nhu An's age sat watching a man beat blood from
her mother's face. The man's uniform identified him as one of General Loan's.

Simultaneously,
Amai felt shock, acceptance, revulsion, and fright.

She looked back
to the jeep. Two soldiers jumped out and began marching toward her. She turned
back to the beating, trying to think of a way to stop it without getting beaten
herself. Then Amai saw several neatly stacked boxes of stolen US Army grenades.
The woman was Viet Cong. 

Amai took a step
forward and Loan's man turned and saw her.

She thought:
He's
going to bash my face in
.

He came away
from his work and started toward her. She assessed his face: his expression was
blank.

He doesn't
recognize me.

Amai took a step
back, but there was nowhere to go. She would have to talk her way out of it.

He said: 'What
do
you
want?'

She gave him her
sexiest pout and pointed to the end of the lane. 'Just passing.'

Her charm had no
obvious effect.

He kept coming.
'Who are you? Tell me your name.'

Amai looked over
his boney shoulder, and to her delight, the mother grabbed the girl's wrist and
pulled her through a green door and into the warehouse beyond.

Loan's man
turned, saw that his prisoners had gone, and rushed back to the alcove.

Amai saw her
chance to escape and started to run.

The man spun and
grabbed for Amai's arm. She swerved and bumped a trashcan, which fell to the
ground, spilling trash and a big, grey rat. The rat ran away, hugging the wall.

Amai ran as hard
as she could. She heard the men from the jeep and yell out.

Will they
shoot?
She thought.

The sound took
several seconds to come, but it was not like the sound of any gun that she had
heard: it was a loud wallop that echoed past her and out into the street
beyond. Amai turned to see the lane filling with a thick cloud of red
brick-dust.

She kept going.

When she reached
Cam
's building, Amai was
panting hard. She looked back; no one had followed her; no one was paying her
any attention, but a small crowd had formed at the lane's entrance. Amai's
limbs felt cold and heavy.

She climbed the
internal spiral of thin metal stairs to the third floor. It was cool and
gloomy. Her feet clanged on the iron steps, and a musty smell drifted down from
the rooms above.

Amai knocked on
Cam
's door, but got no answer. She felt on
the verge of panic and banged the door with the edge of her fist.

She's not
home,
Amai thought.
I've got to get in.

She remembered
seeing some thin plastic banding outside on the pavement, and went down to get
it.

Outside she felt
exposed. Two Army jeeps and an ambulance rounded the corner. She snatched up
the plastic, shrank back into the doorway, and ran up the stairs.

Amai flattened
the plastic and forced it between the jamb and the lock. The door opened and
she went in.

Amai was annoyed
to find
Cam
sitting
cross-legged in the centre of the room.
Cam
was a picture of peace: eyes closed, breathing slow, chanting
softly, while behind her, down in the harbor, cranes moved like the mechanical
fangs of giant spiders, feeding on a helpless prey of paralyzed steel.

Cam
often said that meditation connected her with the divine; the
mantra focusing her mind until her sense of self expanded out into the peace of
full transcendence. It was at this time that her psychic energy was strongest.

Cam
's eyes opened.

Amai went to
her. 'Did you not
hear
the explosion?'

'What
explosion?'
Cam
unfolded
herself, stood, and took her in a sisterly embrace. 'What is it, petal?'
Cam
said. What's wrong?'

Tears welled in
Amai's eyes, but didn't spill. 'Too many things,
Cam-
'

'You're in
trouble.'

Amai vomited her
words: 'Triet will cut off Nhu An's hands if I don't get information from an
American-'

'No.'
Cam
said. 'No-'

'I must. Nhu An-'

'We'll get a
message to her. She can go into hiding-'

'No
Cam
. Triet's serious. They'll find her. I
have no choice-'

'Amai. It's too
dangerous-'

'I don't need a
lecture,
Cam
. I need your
help.'

'I can't help
you if you won't help yourself.'

Amai flared. 'It
was you who dragged me into this mess-'

Cam
looked down.

'There's
something else,' Amai said. 'Something worse.'

Cam
didn't speak.

Amai told her
about Tet, and Triet's plan for
Saigon
's slaughter.

Cam
steadied herself against the wall. 'I have to meditate.'

'You always run
away to meditate. What should
I
do?'

'The world has
its path, Amai. Everything happens for a reason.
Saigon
's fate is
Saigon
's
fate. We cannot change it.'

Amai felt like
Cam
was abandoning her. 'I have to stop
this.'

Cam
swept the hair from Amai's face. 'And the American - Danny. Will he
take you out of
Saigon-
'

'He's away.'

'You need to
tell him what's going on.'

'He'll leave
me.'

'Not if he loves
you.'

'Oh
Cam
, what've I become? I'm horrible.'

'No-'

'What would
father think?'

Cam
was silent.

Amai looked at
the floor. 'He would be ashamed.'

'He doesn't know
what the world is like now.'

Their father
lived a strictly Confucian way of life. He valued the virtues, and had raised
his children to respect the traditional ways. Amai pondered the web of the
deceit that she had spun since arriving in
Saigon
. Her father
would
be ashamed.
She
was ashamed.

Her father insisted
on dignity and respect of others; but above all else, he insisted on respect of
self.

The body is
as important as the mind;
his long spoken words
filled her with dread.

Triet had
manipulated her into lying, acting like a whore, and now drugging people. In
the beginning she had believed Triet's propaganda, but now she understood that
in his relentless
drive to beat the Americans, her innocents had been
trampled.

I was so
naive,
she thought.

Triet had taken
advantage of her, and now she would have to carry out another shameful task, or
her innocent niece would become a victim.

'I wish I never
came to
Saigon
,' Amai said.

Then she
realized that had she not, she would never have meet Danny.

An awful feeling
of guilt swamped her.  

Cam
said: 'You're under pressure. Think clearly. Use your intuition, it
will guide you.'

Amai wiped her
eyes. 'I just want to be a good person.'

Then it sank in:
guilt would accompany whichever course of action she chose; she would never be
free of it.

She needed to
nullify the guilt.

She needed to
close her mind, not open it. She needed to start the process of shutting the
doors to her soul, if she was to get through tonight's sordid task. 

Cam
said: 'You
are
a good person. I love you my sister.'

Then they just
held each other.

In
Cam
's embrace, Amai began to accept her
fate, and with acceptance came tenacity.

I won't fail
Nhu An,
she thought.
I won't fail the children.

12

T
he base surgeon wrapped a bandage around Nash's calf and fastened it
with metal clasps. 'You've got some stitches, Captain. Keep the wounds clean -
and for God's sake - rest it.'

Nash had no
intention of resting. His ass felt like a pin-cushion and his leg throbbed, but
he'd just been tipped-off on Amai's whereabouts and was desperate to follow it
up; unfortunately he had to spar with Colonel Hitchcock first. Hitchcock wanted
to shut him down.

A gentle eddy of
nerves started in Nash's gut and he checked his watch:
4:45pm
.
He
smoothed his non-regulation forelock back into his brylcreemed fringe, mounted
his crutches, and vaulted to the waiting jeep. Corporal Jessup was driving.
 

'To the MI
compound, Corporal. Move it.'

Hitchcock
might look old and weak,
Nash thought.
But he
bends men to his will like a blow-torch bends steel.
The jeep pulled away.
Hitchcock
won't bend me
.

Hitchcock wanted
to shut down his surveillance operation and re-assign him to Death-Squads.
Delta-squads would mean a return to the vils and hamlets to sweat old folk and
take mothers away from their children. Nash preferred the city. He liked the
bustle, the Oriental customs, the bright colors, the lively bars, and the
groups of smiling women with their slim bodies and perky titties. And it was
the city where Nash would win his renown, because unlike his superiors, he
knew
the Viet Cong were planning a large scale attack in
Saigon
; he just had to convince Colonel Hitchcock to let him continue
pursuing Amai - even for just a few more days.

But Hitchcock
could shut him down in a second. Nash's problem was that the old-school Colonel
thought of him as a juvenile waster of resources. Hitchcock expected results,
and so far Nash had failed to deliver concrete proof of his theory.

For success,
Nash needed to find Amai, and now, after the botched surveillance, his hand had
been forced - he would have to arrest, and torture her.

She will give
me The Ghost.

Ashamed of his
failure, Nash's forehead was crimped into V. The failure had rocked his ego.
The humiliation of being beaten by a girl hurt far more than the bullets, and
he was sure that the Intelligence fraternity was talking about it behind his
back. He was sure his driver was suppressing a grin.

Nash thought of
his father: he had been a big, strong, and highly devout man, who expected
everyone around him to meet his high expectations. Nash's father had only
beaten him eight times, but Nash remembered every one of them. Nash remembered
the fear and guilt he had felt whenever he made a mistake.

Nash suddenly
feared that Amai would make a fool of him again.

Then he
remembered the moment when he had stood up to his father, and he felt the
impact of the punch in his fist, and saw his father's stunned face before his
knees buckled, and he slumped to the kitchen floor. His father had never
bullied him again, and every time someone had tried to bully Nash, he had
punched him in the face. Nash wished he could punch Hitchcock in the face; but
he couldn't - here Nash had to play Hitchcock's game. 

He banged the
leg of a crutch on the jeep's dash.

Nash had put a
round-the-clock watch on Amai's
Thong Nhut Boulevard
flat, but she hadn't returned.

She's too
smart for that,
he thought.

He recalled her
escape with equal measures of disgust, admiration, and shame. She had run and
jumped and climbed with a gymnast's strength and an animal's instinct. Nash
feared that she would go to ground. He had to find her fast: she was his only
lead on The Ghost.

Without her,
I'm screwed.

The jeep stopped
outside Hitchcock's Quonset and Nash got out. Hitchcock was a drinker and a
manipulator, but he was no fool; in PSY-OPS he had coined phrases like
'hearts-and-minds', and had written much of the PSY-WAR Manuel of Operations.
Through the creation of The Phoenix Program, Hitchcock's goal was to break the
enemy through clever propaganda and brutal fear mongering, and at this the
Colonel was expert. Unfortunately, much of Hitchcock's talent was directed at
his own staff. Nash thought that Hitchcock was a prick.

He needs to
be reminded who the real enemy is,
Nash thought.

He put the
rubber toe of each crutch onto the timber steps and vaulted up. He opened the
door to see Hitchcock sitting behind his desk, reading Intelligence estimates.

'C'mon Captain.'
Hitchcock sounded impatient. '
I
haven't got all day - and neither've
you.'

Hitchcock's mole
speckled skull was combed over with strands of damp grey hair, and horn rimmed
glasses magnified watery eyes, pulled down by heavy bags. Behind the Colonel, a
freshly opened bottle of Scotch sat on a shelf beside a framed photo of an
overtly homosexual teenage boy.

A son maybe?
Nash thought, searching for the resemblance.

A tumbler
containing half melted ice sat on the desk, though Nash could not smell the
alcohol through the lingering scent of pipe smoke.

Hitchcock looked
up. 'Sizing me up, son?'

Nash felt off
balance. He stood his crutches against Hitchcock's desk and saluted.

'Put your sticks
against the wall. Now what can I do for you?'

Nash stopped his
eyes from rolling and moved his crutches.

'Well son? Speak
up.'

Nash sat on a
chair in front of Hitchcock's desk and smoothed his face. 'Sir. As you know,
two of my men were killed, and I was obviously wounded in pursuit of a Viet
Cong terrorist-'

'Take your
elbows off the desk.'

Nash sat up
straight.
   

Hitchcock
continued: 'Can't let discipline slip just because of a little nick in the leg
now,
can we
?'

Nash concealed
his irritation. He knew Hitchcock's little power games served only to bolster
his sense of control.

Were you
beaten as a child like I was?
Nash thought.
Ignored by an alcoholic father, maybe? . . .
Or perhaps it's the homosexual
son?

Disinterested,
Hitchcock said: 'I suppose you want more of my men, money, and resources so you
can continue gallivanting around
Saigon
shooting at unarmed little slant-eyed girls.'

'We didn't
actually shoot at
her
, Sir. They-'

'No. But they
certainly shot you.'

Nash clenched
his teeth.

'Tell me
Captain-' Hitchcock extracted a nail full of mucus from his nose. 'Why I should
give
you
anything?'

Nash had
rehearsed his speech on the way over. 'Amai's high-level,' he said confidently.
'She'll give us The Ghost-'

Hitchcock was
examining his finger.

Nash spoke
louder: 'Sir. We need to find out when and where they plan to attack-'

'Stop it with
that goddamn nonsense.' Hitchcock picked up the heavy stack of estimates and
let it drop to the desk. 'Christ, son. The enemy
clearly
doesn't have
the capability to even dream of launching such an attack.'

'They have the
desire, and the signs are there if you-'

Hitchcock tapped
the pile. 'So
you're
right, and everyone else is wrong?'

'It would
seem
so.'

A muscle twitched
in Hitchcock's cheek. 'Now listen for once in your goddamn life. I've been in
this game a lot longer than you.'

Too long,
Nash thought.

Hitchcock stood.
'When Genghis Khan conquered this shit-hole, he did it by picking one village
and slaughtering the men, the women, and the babies, in the most gruesome ways
he could imagine. When the news spread - everyone complied.'

Hitchcock
scraped his fingernail on the edge of his desk.   

'That's the
key.' Hitchcock's voice gained volume. 'Shock-and-awe. Death-squads that put
the fear of God into those little bastards.' He softened his tone. 'Not chasing
some silly little girl around town.'

Nash wanted to
yell:
wake up.
But he knew where Hitchcock was steering him. 'Sir. If we
can get Amai's superior, we can find out what they're planning-'

'Enough.'
Hitchcock was shaking. 'What're you basing this crap on?'

Nash felt like a
boxer whose only trick was a predictable right hook. 'It's a hunch Sir, but-'

'I've told you
time and again, sonny. In my unit we don't
do
hunches. Do we?'

Nash saw his
chance. 'Sir. That's why I need to collect the evidence. Find out once and for
all.'

For the next
twenty seconds, Hitchcock stared directly into his eyes without so much as the
hint of a blink. Then the Colonel said: 'You can have the two corporals from
Army Int. Mancini and Albertez I think their names are. You've got two days.
Then you're back on delta-squads - all of you. Is that understood?'

'Yes.'

'Yes,
Sir
.'

'Yes, Sir.'

Nash mounted his
crutches and left.