The Cover of War (14 page)

29

The
US
Embassy

Saigon

10°46'59"N
106°42'02"E

M
ajor Johnson was hot and restless; he thought that he would've heard
from Amai by now.

Maybe she
won't call?
He thought.

He was
disappointed. She didn't strike him as a one-nighter. He forced himself to focus;
several
work
related problems had presented themselves during the night;
serious problems that needed immediate intervention.

He gulped the
dregs of his coffee and lifted the heavy bakelite receiver of the Embassy's
secure phone. The power to hold lives in his hands thrilled Johnson far more
than he thought it would have.

He dialed the
Pentagon and asked to be put through to the Defense Secretary. A pleasant
female voice asked for his authentication. He gave the codeword, the line
filter rang in his ears, and then she told him to hold.

Several minutes
later the Defense Secretary's voice hit Johnson's ear: 'Johnson. What's the
situation over there?'

'Sir. We've got
a problem.'

'With our
ships?'

'Yes.'

'Christ. What?'

'There's a
vessel snooping them.'

'What the fuck?'

'A disguised
fishing-junk. Probably using a Soviet type towed array sonar-'

'God-fucking-damn-it!'
the Defense Secretary yelled. 'What do they know?'

'Impossible to
tell-'

'Christ.'

'It's under
control Sir-'

'It doesn't
sound like it-'

'Sir-'

'It's your
fucking job to make sure those vessels remain secret. If the Chinese-'

'Sir,' Johnson
cut him off with authority. 'A SEAL team is gearing up to neutralize the junk
as we speak.'

'When will it
go?'

'Zero-five-hundred.'

'Good.'

Johnson's palms
were greasy on the plastic receiver. 'Can I take that as your approval, Sir?'

'Yes Major. I'll
cover things from this end.'

The line went
dead.

The door banged
open and in strode an athletic Marine Corps Master Sergeant, complete with
sharply creased fatigues and a square head.

Johnson spun his
chair around. 'You're not permitted - Can't you fucking read?'

'Yes Sir,' the
Master Sergeant said. 'That urgent message. The one you ordered me to
deliver-on-arrival.' He held up a small, brown envelope. 'We screened it Sir.
It's clean.'

Johnson took the
envelope, tore it open, and then smiled. 'That'll be all thanks Sergeant.'

The Master
Sergeant spun one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and went out.

It was what
Johnson had been hoping for. Amai had accepted his dinner invitation. Johnson
slapped his thigh and whistled. He remembered their erotic encounter with a
surge of lust. The note was signed by Amai, the most sensual of the two.
Anticipation overpowered him and he got so hard that it hurt.

'Sir.'

Johnson startled.
He hadn't noticed the Master Sergeant's re-entry.  The Master Sergeant
looked down at Johnson's crotch, and his eyes bulged. 'I'll come back Sir.' He
spun around again and went out.

Johnson felt
sudden disappointment.
The SEAL mission
, he thought.
I'll have to
cancel Amai.

But the lure of
Amai's body was strong; he was already overwhelmingly addicted to her.

He picked up the
secure phone and dialed the SEAL Commander's personal line
.
It was
answered in one ring with a clipped, yes.

'It's Johnson.
You have the green-light. Zero-five-thirty.'

'Green for
zero-five-thirty. Understood.'

Johnson hung up
grinning. The SEAL Team could now look after itself, but he still had one more
job to do before he could prepare for his date. He left the room, exited the chancery
by the rear door, and strode across the baking hot car-park toward the
consulate.

The only thing
on his mind was Amai.

* * *

Nash's jeep mounted the curb and skidded to
a stop in front of the Embassy's flower pots.

Nash told
Mancini to come with him, and then leapt out of the jeep. At the security gate,
a Marine Corps' Corporal blocked his path. The Marine saluted and Nash went to
push past him.

The Marine
dropped his beefy arm. 'Easy there, Sir. Security upgrade. We need ID.'

Nash spoke
through clenched teeth: 'Get outta my goddamn way.'

'Sir,' the
Marine said, using his torso as a barrier. 'Rules-is-rules.'

Nash sized him
up. He was a big dumb lad and this was his job. Nash thought it best to
play-ball. He fumbled for his ID. 'I need you to take me to a Major Johnson,
immediately. You know him?'

The Marine
scrutinized the ID card, as if it might be a fake, and
Nash
a terrorist.

Nash's rage
flared.
Goddamn asshole
, he thought.

The Marine
looked up. 'Yeah I know him. What's this about, Sir?'

'The matter
concerns Military Intelligence, soldier. I need to see the Major right now.
Let's go.'

'No-can-do,
Sir-'

'And why the
hell not?'

The Marine
smirked. 'He left a few minutes ago-'

'Where the hell
did he go?' Nash got the feeling that the Marine was purposely winding him up.

'Dunno, but he
was in one helluva good mood.'

'This isn't a
game, Corporal.'

The Marine
stiffened. 'He got a note delivered, no more'n five minutes ago. I saw him out
back with a big old hard-on. Don't even know how he could walk with that
monster in his pants.'

Nash turned to
Mancini, standing at his heel like a gun-dog. 'The note gave him a hard-on?'
Nash said as the penny dropped. 'It's gotta be Amai.'

'She's still
working him,' Mancini said. 'She's got guts.'

'Not for long.'

Nash eyeballed
the Marine. 'Which way, Corporal? This is now a matter of National Security.'

The Marine's jaw
dropped like a bulldozer blade. 'He's domiciled in Colonel Jacobson's-'

'Where?'

'Behind the
chancery.'

'Take us.' Nash
boomed.

The Marine led
them through the Embassy and out into the rear car-park. They jogged across the
asphalt and down an overgrown path to the Villa's front porch. The door was
ajar, so Nash went in and searched the house.

The only
occupant was a cleaner. Major Johnson was not there, and strangely, there was
no evidence to suggest that he ever had been.

Nash met the
other two in the living room. He put his hands on his head, and said: 'Goddamn
it. He could be anywhere.'

'He's with
Amai,' Mancini mumbled. 'Where would he take her?'

'Dinner? Drinks?
A swanky hotel?' Nash said. 'But we can't search every restaurant and bar in
Saigon
.'

Nash wished he
knew what Johnson was like: did he flash around his money, or was he frugal?
Was he the kind to parade a beautiful woman like Amai, or hide her away? He
looked at Mancini and thought:
Idiot. I'd know this goddamn stuff if it
wasn't for you.

Nash checked his
anger and tried to think.

Mancini said:
'We can check the popular ones easy enough.'

'Make a list.'

Nash could see,
not just a fast promotion slipping away, but his entire career being flushed
into an open cesspit.

I'm running
out of time.
He pointed at the Marine. 'What
department's Johnson in? What's his role?'

The Marine held
up his hands. 'No one knows. He's Pentagon. Even outside Westy's authority. Clearance
to the highest level and all that shit.'

Nash stared at
the gaps in the villa's floorboards, and thought:
This is getting worse.

The Marine said:
'I gotta get back on post.' He began walking toward the Embassy.

Mancini crunched
a cockroach under his boot.

* * *

A cinderblock-wall separated the consulate
from the Embassy's rear car-park. In the wall was a heavy steel gate. The gate,
and a hundred feet of asphalt, were the final obstacles separating Johnson from
the villa.

Johnson's long
fingers curled around the gate's latch-handle, and he hoped that the man behind
him wouldn't recognize him.

'Hey Johnson, it
is you. Check it, brother.'

Johnson rolled
his eyes.
No such luck.

The man was an
exuberant, young, African-American Flight Lieutenant, who barely knew him.
Johnson didn't have time to stop for this no-body. He needed to make himself
pretty for his date. He wanted to shower, shave, clip his toenails, trim his
pubic hair, find the right shirt, find the right cologne, masturbate, and buy a
necklace for Amai.

'Yo. Johnson. You
listenin'?'

Johnson smiled.
'What is it Lieutenant?'

'Hey
check-it-out. Nigger steps out of a shower, right.'

Johnson's lips
curled. He hated that word.

The Lieutenant
barreled on: 'A gook sees his big cock, right, and says - how I get my dick
that big? Easy, says the brother. Just tie a rock to that lil' worm. In a week
it'll look just like mine. Week later the brother asks the gook if his cock is
bigger. The gook says - No. But it has gone black.'

The Flight
Lieutenant burst into raucous laughter and slapped Johnson hard on the back.

Johnson's teeth
came together. But as the LT launched into his next gag, Johnson was monitoring
the progress of three men, running across the asphalt toward the villa. One was
a Marine attached to the Embassy guard. The other two wore the Army's
short-sleeved dress-uniform; one a Corporal, the other a Captain. There was
something disturbing about the Captain's expression - he was a man on a
mission.

The appearance
of the men worried Johnson. His operational brief required he be suspicious. It
also required that he go undetected.

Who are they?
Johnson thought.
What do they want? What do they
know?

One could never
be sure who was on whose team these days. Johnson could have left it alone. He
had left nothing in the villa that would betray him or his work here, but he
decided to confront the men anyway. Too much was at stake to leave things to
chance. Politely, he turned and listened to the remainder of the Flight
Lieutenant's lame joke, and then went though the gate. Halfway across the
car-park he reached inside his shirt, took out his Smith & Wesson .45, and
thumbed off the safety.

He turned onto
the villa's garden path and ducked the overhanging branches. Then he heard
something behind him and spun round.

Out on
Thong Nhut Boulevard
, he could hear an
over-revving engine, and tyres spinning on concrete. He ran back down the path
to the car-park and caught sight of a jeep as it flashed past the night-gate.
The driver was thrashing the motor for all it was worth, and Johnson was sure
that the determined looking Captain was the passenger.

Johnson hoped
his cover wasn't blown.

He went into the
villa.

30

Bien Hoa Airfield

15 miles north of
Saigon

10°58'13.85"N
106°48'30.42"E

T
he C-130 landed heavily and taxied toward a wide parking area, the
setting sun's last bright splinters flashing through the portside windows like
welding flare.

Amai was the
only thing on Danny's mind.
I have to get to her.

Something told
him that she needed him. He desperately needed to look her in the eye; touch
her skin; tell her how much he loved her.

The rear ramp
started to lower. Heat blur swirled in the artificial light beyond. Danny saw
headlights, speeding toward the aircraft, and though:
They're in a rush to
unload.

'Fuck-a-duck,'
Blue said. 'MPs.'

Danny felt a
surge of panic; he was so close to Amai. 'What do I do?'

Blue pulled him
back into the C-130's interior. Danny could see MP jeeps pulling-up through the
portals on both side of the fuselage.

Blue led him to
the front of the cargo hold, and opened the portside hatch. Blue jumped out.
Danny followed. They went under the fuselage to the nose wheel.

Blue pointed to
the hangar, less than twenty yards away. 'Run forward of the nose. When you
reach the fence, follow it to the hangar.'

Blue ran and
Danny followed. At the fence, Blue slowed to a stroll.

They entered the
hangar.

'Sorry mate,'
Blue said. 'But I gotta love-n-leave-ya.'

Danny
understood, and ran to the backdoor. He went through and onto the narrow
street.

I've gotta
hide,
he thought, panicked.
They'll see me.

He went behind a
row of dumpsters and crouched down. Darkness fell.