Thai Horse (18 page)

If he was true to form, Pot would be in there for about half an hour. At first Porter paid little attention to the
hang yao
that slid through the water and bumped gently against one of the other two boats. The
o
arsman walked swiftly down the length of his boat and tied it to the first. He went aboard the
hang yao
he was tied to started talking to the
prostitute who operated it. Som
e money changed hands. Porter became suspicious. T
h
e oarsman was nodding toward Pot’s floating brothel.
P
orter sensed something was wrong. He brushed rudely past a young Chinese who was walking toward him, clam
b
ered down onto the boat, and started after the oarsman. The young Chinese, startled by how quickly he had
m
oved, stared for a moment before following him.

Inside the small thatched coveri
n
g on the boat, the young prostitute had begun her sed
uction
. She had taken off Pot’s shirt and pants and then tripped off her own blouse. Her almond breasts
brushed
his chest, teasing him, then she reached down and be
g
an to stroke him, to bring him to life. She placed a hand his chest and gently forced him to lie down on a straw
m
attress on the deck. Pot was lost in ecstasy, unaware of t
h
e drama being played out twenty feet away. He did not f
e
el the
hang yao
rock slightly as Split-eye cautiously starte
d
to come aboard.

Porter jogged across the first boat as Split-eye began to board Pot’s
hang yao.

‘Hey!’ Porter yelled, rushing up behind him. The man turned. His ruined eye dodged cra
z
ily in its socket. His hand
flashed under his sleeve and Po
rter saw the gleam of a dagger in his hand as the Chinese
lu
nged toward him.

‘Jesus!’ Porter yelled. As the Chi
n
ese made his thrust Port
er sidestepped and felt the blad
e nick his shirt; he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it outward. Split-eye was thrown off-balance. The knife pun out of his hand and, as he turned sideways, he trip
p
ed over the gunwale and lunged backward into the river.

An instant later Porter felt a sta
b
bing pain as a cold sliver of steel invaded him, slicing deep into the small of his back. He turned and was face
t
o
face with the young Chinese. The youth’s arm arced a
gain
, but Porter spun away and the knife slashed his side.
B
ehind him, Split-eye rose out of the river. His hands
w
rapped around the
gunwale of the
hang yao
and he pu
ll
ed himself out of the water with one lunge, stepped into the boat and grabbed his stiletto off the deck.

Porter was too busy to feel o1 hear anything. He slammed an enormous fist into the young Chinese’s face, felt his nose shatter, heard his muffled cry of pain. He brought his knee up sharply into the man’s groin, and the assailant jackknifed and fell on his knees. Behind him, Split-eye very deliberately and with no particular haste stuck the point of his dagger in the base of Porter’s neck, severed the nerve to his brain and paralyzed him.

Porter turned, stricken, and stare
d
blankly at Split-eye, his arms dropped to his sides and
da
ng
l
ed uselessly there. Split-eye struck again, bringing the dagger up in a short, hard arc, and burying it to the hilt
P
orter’s side. The big man felt very little. He was aware that something was inside him, aware that it was cours
ing
upward deep into his chest. Then his heart collapsed his eyes rolled up. Split-eye pulled the knife out and slammed into the big American, knocking him sideways 1-to the river.

Pot heard the commotion, felt the
hang yao
begin to rock, heard a woman scream, then another. He was struck suddenly with fear, like an electric .bock flashing through every nerve. He jumped up, scrambled for his pants, then heard a tremendous splash. He cra
w
led on his hands and knees and peered out of the thatch
e
d room in time to see the young Chinese stab Porter,
w
atched in horror as Split-eye rose out of the river, attacked the big man and knocked him over the side. Sp1itee turned toward Wol Pot, his good eye glittering with
evil

Pot was struck with terror. He t
wi
sted, rolled over the side of the
hang yao
in his shorts,
a
nd dropped into the black water.

Onshore, the shock of the brief, violent drama was wearing off, but there was still a great deal of shouting. Split-eye knew the Thai had esc
a
ped him again. He grabbed his young partner by the
sh
irt front, shoved him into the
hang yao
he had
commandeered
, and turned back to the young whore. He shoved her into the seclusion of the thatched cabin and held the point of the blade to her throat.

‘Where does he live?’ his voice hissed.

She shook her head but was too frightened to speak.

‘Where do I find Thai Horse?’ he demanded.

‘Who?’ she stammered.

The assassin could tell she knew nothing.

‘Speak to the police and I will come back and carve your face until you look like a grandmother,’ he said and, jumping into the
hang yao,
raced off into the darkness.

HOOCHGIRL

Hatcher was watching from the observation room as the Navy fighters streaked like silver dragonflies over the Pacific Ocean and landed at the
M
AS. An F-16 banked sharply into its final approach, caught the morning sun on its gleaming surface for an instant, then leveled off, its wheels dropping and locking in place a few seconds before the big fighter’s tires screeched on the runway.

The bullet-shaped plane glided smoothly to its hard- stand and stopped, and the pilot emerged from the cockpit. He was a diminutive man, tiny in every way
—
short, skinny and small-boned
—
who seemed dwarfed by the helmet, the parachute harness, the Mae West, even his crew chief, who loomed over him like a giant. The pilot came down the ladder and spoke with the chief for a few minutes, then walked around the perimeter of the fighter, pointing here and there. Quite a difference from Cody’s other wingman, Hugh Fraser, wh
o
m Hatcher had interviewed the night before in Seattle
.
The pilot seemed to make up for his size with kinetic bursts of energy while the chief strolled along behind him, taking half as many steps, looking bored and nodding constant agreement with whatever the pilot was telling him.

Hatcher knew it would be another ten or fifteen minutes before the flier was through with the post
-
flight check. He left a message with the officer in charge of the flight line and walked a block down the neatly mowed and trimmed Street to the Officers’ Club. In
s
ide, he stood at the doorway to the club room. He had been in this room once before, eighteen years ago. As far a
s
he could remember, it had not changed a bit. Even the tables appeared to be in the same place. The oak-paneled room gleamed and smelled of lemon polish and floor wax. The walls were lined with photographs of men wh
o
had served there and gone on to other places: fresh, clea
n
-cut, neatly trimmed, eager young men in dress whites, smiling innocently for eternity. The Navy never changed. Part of the allure of the service was a sense of security in
k
nowing that even the furniture polish was a tradition. For Hatcher there was sadness in this room, which in a few hours would come alive with the ring of raised glasses .and toasts and songs to the glory of the corps.

He walked around the empty
d
ance floor, his shoes making hollow clacking sounds on
t
he hardwood floors. It was ironic that the ghost of Murph Cody had brought him back to this place, to this very ro
o
m where a friendship that had endured hardship and
mockery
, good times and bad, and had been bonded by promises of loyalty and respect had ended so rudely. In this very room Cody had terminated that comradeship as finally as a bullet to the heart terminates life.

Hatcher had come to the party
fi
lled with anticipation and excitement. He had not seen
M
urph since his friend’s marriage almost a year earlier.
He
arrived expecting a rowdy reunion.

Instead, he was humiliated and disgraced by the unpredictable Cody in a manner that in
o
ther times would have called for a gloved slap across the face and satisfaction with a choice of weapons at dawn. Hatc
h
er would never forget the cold sneer, the harshness of the words, spoken loud enough to stop every conversation in the room. Cody had handed Hatcher a glass of
champagne
, and holding it up in what was to become a mock toast, he said, ‘Here’s to a maggot who is still a maggot. Here’s to a maggot who was fed and clothed and housed by the service and taught by her and who now has turned his back on her. Here’s to a maggot I once called friend who’s running out because there’s a war on. Here’s to a coward
.‘
And had poured his glass of wine on the bar and turned and walked away. Pledged to the secrecy of the Shadow Brigade, Hatcher had no response. Every eye in the room had followed Cody out the door.

A harsh memory for a room where heroes normally frolicked.

‘I’m Commander Schwartz, you l
o
oking
—
for me?’

Hatcher turned to face the pilot. In person, Schwartz seemed even smaller than he had from a distance. He spoke very quickly and with a peculiar kind of staccato rhythm, pausing in the wrong places and accenting his words on the wrong syllables, like a man avoiding a chronic stutter. His helmet and goggles had left ridges under his eyes and his short-cropped hair was matted like an ink-blot to his skull. He did not look like the head of flight training at one of the Navy’s
m
ajor bases. He looked more like a college whiz kid.

‘Commander Hatcher,’ Hatcher lied, offering his hand, ‘Navy Review Board.’

‘What did
—
I do now?’ Schwar
t
z asked with a relaxed grin. He struck Hatcher as just the opposite of Simmons. Other than being an apparent case of permanent hypertension, Schwartz didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

‘We’re just wrapping up some hangnails,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘You know how the Navy is.’

‘After eighteen years I ought to, Schwartz answered. ‘Can we do this over a sandwich? I’m starving.’

After they had ordered hamburge
r
s and beer, Schwartz asked ‘This about An Khe, Hanoi or Cody?’

‘That’s quite a selection,’ Hatcher growled.

‘I was shot down near An Khe,’ Schwartz said, ‘I was a prisoner for almost four years in H
a
noi, and I was one of Cody’s wingmen. I’ve been asked a lot about all three.’

‘This is about Cody,’ Hatcher whispered.

‘Look,’ the little man said, ‘I know you’re not with the board. Hugh Fraser called me last night. He checked Washington right after you talked to him. Far as the Navy’s concerned, the Cody affair is closed. They never heard of you.’

Before Hatcher could say anything, Schwartz held up his hand. ‘I don’t see there’s any security involved here,’ he said. ‘Anything I could tell you is in the record anyway. What’s this all about?’

Hatcher decided to tell Schwartz just enough to keep him interested and talking.

‘I’d like you to keep part of this confidential,’ Hatcher said, stalling a little to get his thoughts regrouped.

‘That depends,’ Schwartz said warily.

‘You know his father was General Cody?’

‘Of course.’

‘Cody’s dying of cancer. It’s not public knowledge at this point and he’d like to keep it that way until it leaks to the media.’

‘How much time does he have?’ Schwartz asked, obviously stunned and genuinely sorry at hearing the news.

‘Maybe six months.’

‘Shit!’

‘The thing is, the old man’s never been satisfied that Cody was killed,’ Hatcher croaked. ‘So they asked me to do one last check, just for the old man. I worked intelligence for him in Nam.’

‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked.

‘I’m kind of interested in the man. Did you like Cody?’ Hatcher asked.

Whereas Harley Simmons and
H
ugh Fraser had been reluctant to talk, Hatcher couldn’t stop Schwartz. The little man babbled away as though Hatcher had pushed his talk button.

‘Sure, I like him okay,’ Schwartz started, then he paused a moment, rethinking the question. ‘Well, look, it wasn’t a question of
did
you
like him,
Murph wasn’t the buddy-buddy type, y’know. He was uh
. .

‘Standoffish?’ Hatcher offered.

‘Standoffish. That’s good,’ Schwa
rt
z said.

‘When I talked to Hugh Fraser,. he gave me the idea Cody was some kind of suicidal war lover leading his men to certain death.’

‘See, Fraser was always a pretty bitter guy,’ said Schwartz. ‘His accident didn’t help any.’

‘What happened, exactly?’ Hatcher asked.

‘He was making his approach
t
o
the
Forrestal,
flamed out on his final, had to ditch. Broke his back. That’s a real irony, y’know, all he ever wanted was carrier duty. Glamour city.’

‘Yeah, but the Cody thing was bug before that.’

‘Y’see, Fraser was a jet jockey, lie dreamed the carrier dream,’ said Schwartz. ‘The Brown Water Navy definitely wasn’t his idea of big-time war duty.

‘Brown Water Navy?’ Hatcher asked. It was a term with which he was not familiar.

‘That’s what they called our outfit,’ Schwartz explained. ‘We were the only inland squadron in the Navy. We were there mostly to support the Riverine Patrol Forces, covering river convoys, that kind of diddy-bopping shit, but what we really did was support ground movements. It was rotten duty. I suppose there’s an element of truth in what Fraser says. We had big losses. But suicidal? Never. That’s bullshit.’ Schwartz thought for a minute then went on, ‘I’ll tell you, it was like he didn
’
t want to get too close to anybody, Cody I mean. No
favorites
. What we were doing, that was the worst, and Cody’s outfit had
—
a reputation for doing the meanest jobs and working the longest hours. Nobody wanted to go to his outfit.’

‘Did you fear going there?’

‘Yeah, sure. But it was, uh, because of the unexpected, so much talk, y’know. Apprehension.’

‘Okay.’

‘Anyway, Murph really pushed
h
ard, man, like seven days a week, day, night, around the clock, bad weather, night stuff, you name it. He was like, uh, crazy to get the war over with. Don’t get me wrong, he went out there just like everybody else. I’d guess Murph flew more individual sorties than any other man in the outfit..’

Hatcher’s mind wandered back to the night before and his meeting in Seattle with Hugh Fraser, Cody’s other wingman, who had quite a different impression of Cody. At first, Fraser had refused to talk to Hatcher. His crash had left him a pitiful cripple. He walked in a crouch, like an old man, and breath spray could not hide the sickening, end-of-the-day smell of vodka, nor could Visine wash away the broken blood vessels in his eyes. Because Fraser had refused to take Hatcher’s calls, Hatcher had waited for him in the parking lot of one of the small satellite buildings clustered around Seattle-Tacoma
International
where Fraser was vice president of a small charter airline. Hatcher felt sorry for the man. He had obviously aged considerably since his accident. He
w
as vitriolic, like a grouchy old man, and in the
conversation
that was occasionally interrupted by one of the big commercial jets taking off, he lashed out with each question.

‘Would you like to hear what F
r
aser had to say?’ Hatcher asked Schwartz. He took a s nal1 recorder from his pocket and pressed the play button.

Fraser: I’m a busy man. You have fi
v
e minutes.

Hatcher: I just want to talk a little about Murph
—

Fraser: Who’d you say you were with?

Hatcher: Navy Review Board. We
—

Fraser: God damn Navy.

Hatcher:
—
just want to close this thing out once and for all.

Fraser: So what can I tell you that you don’t know already?

Hatcher: You saw Cody go down, is
n
’t that—?

Fraser: I told you boys all this before.

Hatcher: One more time for the wrap-up.

Fraser: (Sighing) I was flying off his port side, half a mile behind him. I heard his Mayday and saw him barrel-roll in.

Hatcher: Any chance he got
ou
t?

Fraser: (Skeptically) C’mon. He set half the Mekong Delta on fire.

Hatcher: I got one report says he may
—
(there was a pause while a jet roared over) have got out of the plane and made a run for
—

Fraser: Whoever told you that’s crazy.

Hatcher: How would you
rate
him? As an officer, I mean.

Fraser: First-class asshole trying to impress his old man. He loved war, a typical career
o
fficer. He ate it up with a spoon. He didn’t give a damn what happened to his men.

Hatcher: Oh
. . .
(the rest of the comment was obscured by another jet)

Fraser: (partially inaudible)
. . .
Army brat. Annapolis man, big-shot father. Never d
r
ank with the guys, never hung out. He had this hoochgirl, a real beauty. You know, perfect skin, perfect teeth, those limpid eyes you could take a swim in. She waited on him like a slave. When he wasn’t flying, he was laid up with this hoochgirl balling all day.

Hatcher: Well, hoochgirls were a dime a
—

Fraser: This one was a real piece, I’ll tell you that. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen, sixteen. Eyes for him, nobody else. He treated that stinking slope like she was his wife, like family for C
h
rissake. God damn Nam hoochgirl.

Hatcher: What happened to her?

Fraser: When he bought it, everybody in the outfit moved on her
—
but she wasn’t having any. Next day, she was gone. Vanished. Like Puff the fucking Magic Dragon. (Pause) Listen, the s
o
n of a bitch got more men killed than the Vietcong.

Hatcher: You mean doing his job?