Ride the Tiger (6 page)

“C
olonel Parsons wants to see you right away,” Sergeant Jeffrey said from his desk.

Frowning, Gib dropped the pencil onto his own desk.
Damn. What now?
“Thanks, Jeffrey.” Locating his utility cap in a lower drawer, Gib got to his feet and walked across the hollow-sounding plywood floor of the tent toward the door. He knew what the colonel wanted—an update on the Villard investigation.

As Gib left the hot, steamy confines of the tent and stepped out into the morning sunlight, the temperature and humidity, both well into the nineties, hit him squarely. He settled the dark green utility cap on his head, the bill almost brushing the bridge of his nose to shade his eyes from the blinding sun.

Marble Mountain was a small base in comparison to Da Nang, which lay to the north of them. It had been erected on virgin white sands at the edge of the turquoise-and-emerald ocean. For as far as the eye could see hard-backed tents and other structures more solidly built out of wood dotted the hilly landscape. In addition, a series of bunkers sat nearby to protect against enemy attack. The place reminded Gib of a hive of busy bees, except that the men were clothed in dark green jungle utilities. In the last month the marines had moved over eight thousand men into Da Nang. Was it the start of a larger American build-up? Gib wondered. On his last tour, he'd worked exclusively with ARVN soldiers, and there had been very few GIs in Vietnam, except in advisory capacities such as his own. Things were changing now, and it bothered him deeply. Part of the reason he'd volunteered for a second tour was because of his strong and personal ties with the Vietnamese ARVN soldiers. Now it was looking more and more like a U.S.-staged event. Stateside, they still called it a “conflict,” but every day Gib felt it looked more and more like war.

Movement at Marble Mountain was constant: helicopters buzzed overhead; men and jeeps hurried from one place to another. Today, Gib felt the strains and pressures of the ceaseless activity more than usual.

Steeling himself for Colonel Parson's questioning, Gib slipped into the tent marked with a red sign trimmed in yellow. Marine Air Group—(MAG)—Headquarters, it proclaimed.

Parsons looked up as Gib entered. Gib stood at customary attention until he was ordered to be at ease and sit down. “I've got the general breathing down my neck,” the colonel began without preamble. “What have you found out about the Villard case?”

“Not much, sir,” Gib admitted. “I talked to Constable Jordan in Da Nang a week ago, and he feels Binh Duc is probably responsible for the placement of the mine that killed Mrs. Villard.”

Parsons's lean hand tightened around the pen he was holding. “Any proof?”

“No, sir. Short of finding Duc and making him admit it, I doubt we're going to get anything substantial.”

“Have you questioned Miss Villard's peasants?”

Gib felt his CO's probing eyes go through him. With the unexpected number of helo flights the last week, he hadn't been able to schedule time to see Dany again. “Not yet, but that's next on my list.”

“When?”

“Today, sir,” Gib lied. He knew he was dragging his feet on this investigation because of Dany's effect on him. Parsons wasn't going to allow any more stalling on his part. He might as well get it over with.

Parsons grunted his satisfaction. “I've been meaning to tell you that I'm appointing you official liaison officer to Miss Villard. It's been so damned busy around here that I keep forgetting to tell you.”

“Liaison officer? What for?”

The colonel shrugged noncommittally. “Don't know yet. That's the word that came up from Saigon a couple days ago. The boys at headquarters don't think we need to know what's going on—as usual.”

Bothered, but not sure why, Gib nodded. “We're still investigating the death of Miss Villard's mother, sir.”

“That has nothing to do with this second assignment, Gib.”

Irritated, Gib scowled. So what the hell did? “Does HQ have some other plans involving the Villard plantation?”

Parsons shrugged. “As I said before, Gib, they don't make me privy to the think-tank personnel who go around all day cooking up screwball ideas to hand to the field marines. If I had anything more than that, I'd give it to you.”

Rankled, Gib nodded. “Sounds like HQ has something bigger up their sleeve.”

“Probably,” Parsons agreed drily. “But until they tell us, we can just hang out over the cliff wondering what the hell it is. We really don't have time for that.”

Gib agreed. “I'll schedule some time to see Miss Villard this afternoon and question her workers. Maybe one of them knows something.”

Parsons snorted. “My money's on the local VC chieftain. Those gooks probably won't talk to you for fear of his reprisal.”

Gib cringed inwardly at the colonel's use of the derogatory term to refer to the Vietnamese people. To him, it showed lack of sensitivity and, worse, a lack of understanding of a people whose history was thousands of years old. They deserved to be treated as human beings, not placed under some convenient, insulting label. “It wouldn't make sense in this case, sir. Miss Villard said she has had an agreement, a neutrality, with all parties involved since 1930.”

With a tight, smile, Parsons muttered, “Miss Villard is fooling herself if she thinks she can remain neutral in the middle of all this.”

“I don't know, sir, the Villards managed to do it when the French colonials were fighting the Vietminh in the fifties.”

“This is different.”

“If I get a deposition with any proof of Duc's involvement, I'll contact you upon my return.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Gib came to attention and left. Against his better judgment, he looked forward to seeing Dany. Had she recovered from the initial shock of her mother's death? He hadn't been able to forget the look on her face, the puffiness beneath her eyes, showing how much she'd cried. Moving between the long rows of tents, he made his way to his own. Recalling Ma Ling's severe censure about showing up in uniform, Gib decided that to keep the peace he'd better slip into civilian clothes.

His tent was small and spare, including a metal bunk with a thin mattress on it, a metal locker where he stored his clothes, an office desk and a phone. The plywood floor was swept daily by Vietnamese women who worked on the base, but sand inevitably crunched beneath his flight boots.

Grabbing a towel, Gib headed for the hastily erected plywood showers that stood at the end of the row of tents. On some days, the grit of Marble Mountain felt like burrs under a saddle as far as Gib was concerned. The fine sand got trapped inside his dark green flight suit and chafed until his skin was raw and bleeding. Then fungal infection could set in, becoming a nightmare of trying to get rid of the leaky abrasions with ten-day cycles of penicillin. He shook his head at the thought.
Yeah, great climate they had here.

Right now Gib wanted a lukewarm shower to cleanse his crowded, exhausted mind almost as much as to wash the sand off his body. Drying himself afterward, he padded down the row of tents in his shower thongs, the white towel wrapped loosely around his narrow hips. It would be a welcome change to get out of his one-piece flight uniform and into a set of clean civilian clothes. Back at his tent, Gib pulled on a light blue short-sleeved shirt, fresh underwear and tan slacks, then quickly ran a comb through his short dark hair, taming it into place.

Feeling semihuman once again, he borrowed a yellow Citroën from an ARVN officer friend and headed toward Dany Villard's plantation. As Gib drove along Highway 1, which would eventually lead to 14, his mind strayed to the passing countryside. The afternoon heat was building across Vietnam, the sun burning down from a bright azure sky to touch the top of the triple-canopied jungle. The smells that surrounded Gib were many, from pungent and acrid to cloyingly sweet. To him, Vietnam was a land of extremes, but more than anything, it was one of the most beautiful places on earth—and, unfortunately, rapidly becoming one of the deadliest.

As he drove down the Villard plantation's long red-brick driveway, Gib saw the few Vietnamese peasants working along the boulevard look up in curiosity. But their faces gave away nothing of what they thought or felt about his intrusive presence.

At the house, Gib climbed out of the Citroën. The need to see Dany was nearly overwhelming in one sense, yet uncomfortable in another. As he took the steps two at a time, Gib tried to search for why he was drawn so powerfully to her, but no answer was forthcoming. All he knew was that thinking of Dany brought a lush flow of feelings that he'd thought he'd lost by being in combat for nearly two tours. And he couldn't afford to feel like that—not here in Vietnam with the rigors of combat he faced every day.

He knocked at the screen door and waited patiently for Ma Ling to appear.

Ma Ling answered his knock, her broad brow wrinkling instantly when she saw who it was. “Yes?” she demanded.

Gib spoke slowly. “I'm here to see Miss Villard.”

Ma Ling's scowl deepened, but she reluctantly opened the door. “Come, you go through house. Miss Dany out with workers.”

Gib nodded. “Thank you.”

Shaking her head, Ma Ling led him through the teakwood halls to a rear door. “Go out there,” she ordered. “You find her there.”

Gib thanked her and, leaving his briefcase near the back door, stepped out once more into the sunshine. Bougainvillea grew in bright profusion around the rear of the house, and a small, carefully manicured lawn with a number of silk trees bordering it made up the backyard. A variety of orchids climbed and hung in the limbs of the silk trees, their colors and scents dazzling his senses. As always, the calls of birds, each melody different, wafted out of the jungle that surrounded the rubber-tree plantation like a somewhat discordant symphony. Screamer monkeys could be heard, their shrieks sounding almost human in the distance.

Beyond the small oval lawn, row upon row of rubber trees stretched for as far as the eye could see. To the left sat a small village of thatched huts. As Gib sauntered across the lawn toward a group of peasants within the line of the rubber trees, he remained on high alert. He still had no proof that Dany or her people weren't VC sympathizers.

Dany had been right: The small village that housed her farmhands and their families appeared more like a hamlet than the poorly built and maintained transient-labor cottages he'd seen on large Texas cotton farms. Everything was neatly kept. Blackened cooking pots sat on iron tripods over small fires, the odor of rice and highly seasoned vegetables filling his nostrils. Older women dressed in black and wearing bamboo hats crouched over the fires, tending the forthcoming evening meals. Very young children, naked and golden brown, screamed and played among the huts. Scrawny dogs chased them, yipping and barking happily at their heels.

As Gib neared the group of peasants, who were raking up leaves and twigs from around the rubber trees, he spotted Dany. Halting, he put his hands in his pockets and looked at her. Unbidden, a smile worked its way onto his lips.

Holding a rake, Dany worked alongside the ten other men and women. She wore loose blue cotton pants, too big on her slender form. Her white cotton overblouse was smudged with dirt here and there, testament that she had been working long and hard today. Her face was covered with a sheen of perspiration, her cheeks flushed a deep pink. Her long hair had been caught up beneath the bamboo hat she wore to protect her face from the harsh rays of the tropical sun.

Gib's smile deepened as his gaze moved downward. Dany was barefoot. She worked unceasingly with her peasants, intent on what she was doing. A small rickety wheelbarrow sat nearby, filled with the twigs, branches and leaves they'd collected, leaving the ground swept clean.

“Dany?” Her name slipped from his lips, more like a reverent prayer than a call intended to catch her attention. Gib was surprised to hear himself use her first name—and by how softly he'd spoken it. Her link with the land made him feel unexpectedly good about her. Thus far, everything she'd said had proven true, Gib thought. If only he could prove for certain that she wasn't a VC sympathizer.

Dany jerked her head up. Her heart banged violently in her breast. Gib Ramsey stood smiling at her, dressed in civilian clothes—and looking devastatingly handsome, she thought unwillingly. The peasants hadn't even heard him call her name. But she had. Confused, she stopped raking and walked toward him. Part of her was thrilled at seeing him, another part filled with dread and fear. In spite of his civilian clothes, word might get back to Binh Duc that he was here, on her property, once again.

Feelings of joy warred with embarrassment as Dany approached him. Glancing down at herself, she realized how unkempt she was. Heat nettled her cheeks, but there was nothing she could do about her appearance at this point. Still, she saw the warm look of greeting in Gib's hazel eyes, the line of his mouth stretching into a lazy smile that sent her heart skittering.

“I'm back,” Gib greeted. Dany's face was flushed, tendrils of black hair sticking to her temples and down the sides of her neck. Her skin had a golden glow.

Dany halted a few feet from him. Caught off guard by his unexpected presence and unsettled by her own response to him, she heard anger tinge her voice as she asked, “Couldn't you have at least called?”

Gib saw the look of dread laced with anger replace the sparkle of life that had shone in her green eyes when she first saw him. Was it because of his official capacity? Or aimed at him personally? He didn't want her to dislike him, he discovered. “I'll try to remember to do that next time,” he said coolly. “I need to discuss some other things with you—”

Dany gripped his arm and turned him toward the house, looking around and pursing her lips. “Then let's go inside where we can't be seen.”