Prayers to Broken Stones (31 page)

“How the hell did all the firing start out there anyway?” asked Justin in the darkness. Several of the others giggled drunkenly.

A firm voice with a Japanese accent answered. “One of them ran. The Reverend opened fire. I joined him in stopping them from escaping.”

“… damn brains all over the place.” Disantis recognized Sayers’s voice. “I’d like to know how they did that.”

“Bloodbags and charges every six centimeters or so under the synflesh,” came the slurred voice of the young man named Newton. “Used to work for Disney. Know all about that animate stuff.”

“If they
were
animates,” said the Sayers shadow and someone giggled.

“You damn well know they were,” came Justin’s voice. “We never got out of the damned Park. Ten thousand goddamn bucks.”

“It was so … 
real,
” said a voice that Disantis recognized as belonging to the airwaves minister. “But surely there were no … bullets.”

“Hell, no,” said Newton. “ ’Scuse me, Reverend. But they couldn’t use real slugs. Customers’d kill each other by mistake.”

“Then how …”

“Lasered UV pulses,” said Justin.

“Triggered the charges under the skin,” said Newton. “Easy to reset.”

“But the blood,” said Reverend Dewitt in the darkness. “The … the brain matter. The bone fragments …”

“All right, already!” shouted Sayers so loudly that several of the other men shushed him. “Come on, let’s just say we got our money’s worth, okay? They can buy a lot of spare parts for that much, right?”

“You can buy a lot of spare gooks for that much,” said Newton and there was a ripple of laughter. “Jesus,” he went on, “did you see that gook girl wiggle when Jeffries slipped it to her the first time …”

Disantis listened for a few minutes more and then went into his room and carefully closed the sliding door.

The morning was beautiful with tall, white clouds piling up above the sea to the east while the family had a leisurely breakfast on the restaurant terrace. Sammee and
Elizabeth had eggs, toast, and cereal. Heather ordered an omelette. Disantis had coffee. Justin joined them late, cradled his head in his hands, and ordered a Bloody Mary.

“You came in late last night, dear,” said Heather.

Justin massaged his temples. “Yeah. Tom and some of us went to the gaming rooms and played poker ’til late.”

“You missed the excitement this morning, Dad,” said Sammee.

“Yeah, what?” Justin sipped at his drink and grimaced.

“They arrested Mr. Minh this mornin’,” Sammee said happily.

“Oh?” Justin looked at his wife.

“It’s true, dear,” said Heather. “He was arrested this morning. Something to do with illegal contraband in his luggage.”

“Yeah,” said Sammee, “I heard the guy downstairs tellin’ somebody that he had a rifle. You know, like ours, only
real.
”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Justin. “Is he going to stand trial or what?”

“No,” said Disantis. “They just asked him to leave. They shipped him out on the morning shuttle to Tokyo.”

“There’re a lot of nuts around,” muttered Justin. He opened the menu. “I think I will have breakfast. Do we have time before the morning tour?”

“Oh, yes,” said Heather. “The helicopters don’t leave until ten-thirty this morning. We’re going up the river somewhere. Dad says that it should be very interesting.”

“I think all this junk is
boring,
” whined Elizabeth.

“That’s ’cause you think everything’s boring, stupid,” said Sammee.

“Be quiet, both of you,” said Heather. “We’re here for your grandfather’s benefit. Eat your cereal.”

The twenty-eight Huey slicks moved out in single file, climbed above the line of trees, and sorted themselves into formation as they leveled off at three thousand feet. The panorama of highways and housing developments beneath them changed to rice paddies and jungle as they entered the Park. Then they were over the river and heading west.
Peasants poling small craft upstream looked up and waved as shadows of the gunships passed over them.

Disantis sat in the open door, hands hooked in the safety webbing, and let his legs dangle. On his back was Sammee’s blue backpack. Justin dozed on a cushioned bench. Elizabeth sat on Heather’s lap and complained of the heat. Sammee swung the heavy M-60 to the left and right and made machine-gun noises.

The guide plugged his microphone into the bulkhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we are on a mission up the Mekong River. Our goal is twofold—to intercept illicit river traffic and to inspect any area of jungle near Highway 1 where movement of NVA regulars has been reported. Following completion of the mission, we will tour an eight-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple. Lunch will be served after the temple tour.”

The helicopter throbbed north and westward. Elizabeth complained that she was hungry. Reverend Dewitt tried to get everyone to sing camp songs but few people were interested. Tom Newton pointed out historical landmarks to his wife. Justin awoke briefly, shot a series of images with his Nikon, and went back to sleep.

Sometime later the guide broke the silence. “Please watch the river as we turn south. We will be searching for any small boats which look suspicious or attempt to flee at our approach. We should see the river in the next few minutes.”

“No, we won’t,” said Disantis. He reached under his flowered shirt and removed the heavy .45 from his waistband. He aimed it at the guide’s face and held it steady. “Please ask the pilot to turn north.”

The cabin resounded with babble and then fell silent as the guide smiled. “A joke, Mr. Disantis, but not a funny one, I am afraid. Please let me see the …”

Disantis fired. The slug ripped through the bulkhead padding three centimeters from the guide’s face. People screamed, the guide flinched and raised his hands instinctively, and Disantis swung his legs into the cabin. “North, please,” he said. “Immediately.”

The guide spoke quickly into his microphone, snapped two monosyllabic answers to unheard questions from the
pilot, and the Huey swung out of formation and headed north.

“Daddy,
” said Heather.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Ralph?” said Justin. “Now give me that goddamn relic before someone gets …”

“Shut up,” said Disantis.

“Mr. Disantis,” said Reverend Dewitt, “there are women and children aboard this aircraft. If we could just talk about whatever …”

“Put the damn gun down, Ralph,” growled Justin and began to rise from the bench.

“Be quiet.” Disantis swung the pistol in Justin’s direction and the big man froze in mid-movement. “The next person to speak will be shot.”

Sammee opened his mouth, looked at his grandfather’s face, and remained silent. For several minutes the only sound was the throb of the rotors and Heather’s soft weeping.

“Take it down here,” Disantis said at last. He had been watching the jungle, making sure they were well out of the Park. “Here.”

The guide paused and then spoke rapid-fire Vietnamese into his mike. The Huey began to descend, circling in toward the clearing Disantis had pointed to. He could see two black Saigon Security hovercraft coming quickly from the east, the downblast of their fans rippling the leaf canopy of the jungle as they roared ten meters above it.

The Huey’s skids touched down and the high grass rippled and bent from the blast of the rotors. “Come on, kids,” said Disantis. He moved quickly, helping Elizabeth out and tugging Sammee from his perch before Heather could grab him. Disantis jumped down beside them.

“The
hell
you say,” bellowed Justin and vaulted down.

Disantis and the children had moved a few feet and were crouching in the whipping grass. Disantis half-turned and shot Justin in the left leg. The force of the blow swung the big man around. He fell back toward the open doorway as people screamed and reached for him.

“This is real,” Disantis said softly. “Goodbye.” He fired twice past the cockpit windshield. Then he took Elizabeth
by the hand and pulled her toward the jungle as the helicopter lifted off. A multitude of hands pulled Justin in the open door as the Huey swung away over the trees. Sammee hesitated, looked at the empty sky, and then stumbled after his sister and grandfather. The boy was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Hush,” said Disantis and pulled Sammee inside the wall of vegetation. There was a narrow trail extending into the jungle darkness. Disantis removed the light backpack and took out a new clip for the automatic. He ejected the old magazine and clicked the new one in with a slap of his palm. Then he grabbed both children and moved as quickly as he could in a counter-clockwise jog around the perimeter of the clearing, always remaining concealed just within the jungle. When they stopped he pushed the children down behind a fallen tree. Elizabeth began to wail. “Hush,” Disantis said softly.

The Huey gunship came in quickly, the guide leaped to the ground, and then the helicopter was spiralling upward again, clawing for altitude. A second later the first of the Saigon Security hovercrafts roared in over the treetops and settled next to the guide. The two men who jumped out wore black armorcloth and carried Uzi miniguns. The guide pointed to the spot on the opposite side of the clearing where Disantis had first entered the jungle.

They lifted their weapons and took a step in that direction. Disantis walked out behind them, dropped to one knee when he got to within five meters, braced the pistol with both hands, and fired as they turned. He shot the first policeman in the face. The second man had time to raise his gun before he was struck twice in the chest. The bullets did not penetrate the armorcloth but the impact knocked him onto his back. Disantis stepped forward, straightened his arm, and shot the man in the left eye.

The guide turned and ran into the jungle. Disantis fired once and then crouched next to the dead policeman as a wash of hot air struck him. The hovercraft was ten meters high and turning toward the trees when Disantis lifted the policeman’s Uzi and fired. He did not bother to aim. The minigun kicked and flared, sending two thousand fléchettes a second skyward. Disantis had a brief glimpse
of the pilot’s face before the entire canopy starred and burst into white powder. The hovercraft listed heavily to the left and plowed into the forest wall. There was the heavy sound of machinery and trees breaking but no explosion.

Disantis ran back to the jungle just as the second hovercraft appeared. It circled once and then shot straight up until it was lost in the sun. Disantis grabbed the children and urged them on, circling the edge of the clearing again until they reached the spot where the guide had entered the forest. The narrow trail led away from the light into the jungle.

Disantis crouched for a second and then touched the high grass at the side of the trail. Drops of fresh blood were visible in the dappled light. Disantis sniffed at his fingers and looked up at the white faces of Sammee and Elizabeth. They had stopped crying.

“It’s all right,” he said, and his voice was soft and soothing. Behind them and above them there were the sounds of rotors and engines. Gently, ever so gently, he turned the children and began leading them, unresisting, along the path into the jungle. It was darker there, quiet and cool. The way was marked with crimson. The children moved quickly to keep up with their grandfather.

“It’s all right,” he whispered and touched their shoulders lightly to guide them down the narrowing path. “Everything’s all right. I know the way.”

We Americans have a knack for turning our most beloved national shrines into something tacky and vulgar. Perhaps it’s because we’re too young to have a real sense of history; perhaps it’s because our nation—not counting the Confederacy—has never been bombed or occupied or even invaded by a foreign power (no, I don’t count the British when they burned Washington City … few Americans noticed and fewer cared), and there is little real sense of sacrifice to our shrines.

There are, of course, a few shrines that defy our efforts to tackify them. It’s hard to stand in front of the Lincoln Memorial at night without beginning to feel like Mr. Smith just come to Washington. I had a Jimmy Stewart stammer for three days after my first midnight visit there.

But if you stand there long enough, you can almost hear the bureaucrats conferring with the Disney Imagineers behind the marble walls; come back six months later and Old Abe will probably stand, recite his Second Inaugural in Hal Holbrook’s voice, wade the Reflecting Pool, and tapdance down Constitution Avenue.

All in good taste, of course.

But then there are the Civil War battlefields.

You’ve probably visited Gettysburg. Despite the best efforts of sincere people to preserve it, the place has been littered with statues and dusted with memorials. The Park Service erected a phallic monstrosity of a tower at the highest point so that there is no escaping the intrusion of 20th Century ugliness. Computerized dioramas blink
lights in the museum and you can buy souvenir t-shirts in the local shops.

it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter.

As with a score of less famous Civil War battlefields, Gettysburg has an almost overpowering sense of
rightness
about it: an almost physical effect on the visitor and a psychic impact that must be felt to be believed. It is a haunting place in every sense of the word. No castle in Scotland, no druidic circle of stones, no crypt beneath a Pharaoh’s pyramid could be eerier or could channel more voices of the dead to the ears of the living.

And few places could be more moving or peaceful.

For what it’s worth, this tale grew—literally—from a footnote, but every supporting detail in “Iverson’s Pits” is as accurate as I could make it. The burial pits were real. One account in Glenn Tucker’s classic
High Tide at Gettysburg
records: