The Cover of War (3 page)

Danny could
smell the mother's insides and smoking oil from the scooter's ruptured engine.
His hands gripped the Honda's frame, sending ringlets of shock up his arms. He
lifted the twisted metal off the girl. Her left leg had been blown off at the
knee; splintered bone and ripped meat gaped from the stump. The mother's body
had protected her child from most of the blast, but the leg had been exposed.

Danny heard
himself yell for an ambulance. A bystander said she'd called one.

He took off his
shirt and knotted the sleeves around her upper thigh. He tightened the knot and
her stump squirted warmth onto his chest. He looked down and realized that he
was drenched in her blood.

The girl babbled
in a high-pitched voice that he couldn't understand.

He stroked her
forehead. 'You poor little soul.'

Her thin arms
went around his neck. Danny held her frail body to his. 'Its okay. It'll be
okay. The ambulance is coming.' He said it more to comfort himself than
her. 

What a mess.
What a damn mess.

The child began
shaking. She had seen her mother and let out a disturbingly hollow sound - a
sound that he knew would haunt his mind until the day of his own death.

Without warning
a blow struck him hard in the face. His vision blurred. Another blow struck the
side of his head.

The attacker was
a Vietnamese man.

The Trung
Hoa?

The girl was
ripped from his arms. Danny jumped to his feet; but his attacker, with the girl
in his arms, dropped to his knees beside the mother's corpse.

The father.

A military
ambulance stopped beside Danny. A medic went to the girl. Black plastic was
draped over the mother.

Danny backed
away. He didn't know where to go or what to do - he turned and started walking.
He walked fast.

Then he
remembered General Westmoreland.
The Grand,
he thought.
I've got to
get cleaned up.

* * *

Fully aware of the danger he was about to
put himself in, John Golota strode past the ambulance and entered the Trung Hoa
Club.

Just shit
killing shit,
he thought.

The Trung Hoa
reeked of VC - VC and cockroaches and stale booze.

Switch on,
he thought.

Like a
rock-star, Golota removed his ray-bans, smoothed his spiked blonde hair, and
squinted through the cigarette smoke. He went to bar, aware that a male gook
had blocked the door behind him.

Golota was not
here to make trouble; he was here for his drugs - his payment.

He put both
hands on the dusty counter, and eyeballed the barman. 'I'm looking for Amai.'

'Never heard of
her.'

'She's expecting
me.'

'
Never
heard
of her.'

Golota propped
an elbow on the bar. 'I'll take bourbon on ice.'

Eyeing him
warily, the bartender poured bourbon into an iceless glass and pushed it toward
him. Golota internalized his laughter; it reminded him of a scene from a
low-budget western. He put a ten dollar note on the bar, drained the glass, and
said: 'Hit me again, hold the ice.'

Mindful that he
was in VC country, Golota took his drink and crossed the cheaply carpeted
floor, where two drunks bickered in Vietnamese.

If the shit-hits-the-fan,
Golota thought.
I'm dead.

He had not
wanted to come here, but it was the only place that Amai would meet. He had
decided the risk was worth the reward. He needed his 'speed'.

The club was
small. The filthy bar covered the back wall. Behind the bar was a padlocked
door, brush-painted in faded orange. The room had no obvious ventilation, and
thin layers of smoke floated between the floor and ceiling. At the room's
centre, several sluty girls took turns at frotting a chrome pole. They paid him
no attention; they were for local benefit only.

VC scum.

Five small,
round tables surrounded the pole. Golota sat at one of the tables and watched a
girl's lacey underwear slide down the chrome.

Out of the
corner of his eye, Golota saw a flash of blue. He turned and held his breath.
Amai's curvy form drifted out of the haze.

I'd love to
see
her
fucking that pole,
he thought.

She sat opposite
him, looking frightened. Golota smiled.

He had picked
she was VC instantly. It was two months ago, at a bar in Cholon. Dressed in
clinging charcoal silk, which would've stood out in a 5th Avenue restaurant,
and oozing sexuality, she looked out place - then he had watched her work the
reporter.

Golota had
attempted to blackmail her, threatening to blow her cover if she didn't supply
him with the 'speed' he was needing more-and-more. It had been a gamble - a
dangerous gamble - but he wasn't surprised when she asked for military
information in return for the drugs. The information she asked for had been
easy to get. He needed his 'speed'.   

He Said:
'Where's my fucking stuff?'

Amai pushed the
small plastic-bag across the table and Golota felt the rush of anticipation.
With those drugs in his blood he would be a killing machine in the field.
 

With his left
hand, Golota pinned Amai's wrist to the table. With his right, he touched the
smooth skin of her arm.

'No.'

He held her
tight and looked into her frightened eyes. Her body trembled. He felt powerful.

'If I yell,
your-'

He let go. She
stood, turned, and then floated back into the bar-room smog; the clinging blue
fabric making love to her entire body as she walked.
He imagined her
sucking him off, her sultry eyes looking up at him
as she made him come.

Those eyes,
he thought.
Fuck, those eyes.

Amai was playing
it too close, Golota knew. He figured she would soon be locked in an
interrogation chamber;
Saigon
was riddled with informants.

He suddenly
feared loosing his line of supply. Next time he saw her he would arrange a back
up.

If I see her.

Somehow he
didn't think he would.

Golota pocketed
the plastic bag and left.

* * *

Chaske Thorn recognized the girl
immediately. There were only two faces like hers in
Vietnam
; hers, and her sister's.

Chaske's mind
spooled back six years to
Laos
.
The Ho Chi Minh Trail.

It
was
her.

The top-secret
mission was a proof-of-concept test for the JASON Group. Chaske's team of the
CIA's Special Activities Division, had seeded a section of the emerging Ho Chi
Minh Trail with experimental seismic detection devices - GSIDS.

The details came
back vividly: through the hot, wet foliage, he watched the girl and her sister.
Somehow the older one had seen him. Chaske's mouth was dry. He felt
simultaneously helpless and attracted to her; the older sister. In the ferns
beside him, Golota raised his PPS submachine-gun. Chaske reacted instinctively,
pushing Golota's barrel away as the firing pin struck the primer. The bullets
slapped into heavy leaves. The sister looked directly into Chaske's eyes. He
felt the thump of an explosion; heard the crack of bullets. He forced his mind
to stay conscious; conscious enough to escape. He dumped the radio; the Station
Chief's metallic voice vibrating through the speaker, broadcast from a C-121,
orbiting thirty-thousand feet overhead, demanding to know what the hell was
going on with his sensor string.

Chaske looked
for an escape.

Golota's head
was bleeding; his ear shredded.  

It was Chaske's
fault. He just couldn't bear to see such beautiful creatures killed. It was a
mistake - he had let Golota down - his country down.

Chaske had heard
his father's words echo in his mind:
Conscience is the root of all courage.
If you want to be brave, obey your conscience.
Those were the last words
his father had spoken before beginning his walk into the spirit world.

Saving those beautiful
girls was no mistake. How could it be?

Chaske came back
to the present. Sweat slipped between his muscles and the loose cotton shirt.
The younger of those beautiful creatures was now on the sidewalk -
in
Saigon
.

* * *

It took Amai less than a second to remember
everything about the man's face.

He had saved her
life in
Laos
; the big, olive
skinned man with jet black hair. But Amai wasn't about to thank him. She wasn't
stupid. She turned casually into an alley, and then started to run. She could
hear the big man's footsteps behind her. Amai pumped her legs. She swung around
another corner. Her hand caught a fire escape. She ran the ladder like a sailor
and threw herself through the first open window. She lay on her back on the
wooden floorboards, breathing hard.

She had escaped.

Was he part of
Loan's surveillance team? Were there more men following her?

No,
she thought. The look on his face had shown shock recognition - the
big, olive skinned man had not expected to see her.

She got to her
knees and looked down into the lane. The man was gone.

It suddenly
occurred to her that reporting Tet to MACV might not be so easy.  She
climbed onto the metal ladder. She couldn't tell Danny about Tet; if he found
out that she had spent the last month lying to him, he would leave her; she
couldn't bear that - she just couldn't imagine living her life without him.
Neither could she walk up to MACV's Tan Son Nhut headquarters; they would just
dismiss her as a silly girl. Similarly, a note wouldn't be taken seriously. She
couldn't tell General Loan or the Military Intelligence men that were tracking
her; they would certainly believe her and react accordingly - Tet would be
stopped - but after torturing her for Triet's whereabouts, Loan would put a
bullet in her head and dump her body in the
Saigon
River
. At present,
MI would keep there distance and attempt to follow her to Triet.

She stopped on
the ladder.
That's it.

She could lead
Military Intelligence to Triet. Once they had him she could send them a note,
detailing Triet's plans for the Tet Offensive. She felt sudden vertigo; Triet
would be tortured; Tet would be confirmed; US Forces would be pulled back into
the city -
Saigon
's children
would be saved.

She could
continue her life with Danny. They would have to leave
Vietnam
. Danny could never know.

Amai climbed to
the ground, feeling at an advantage. She had a plan; a dangerous plan - and now
she had to execute it.

Saigon
's lights were starting to come on. She cut through a narrow,
crowded Market. Spices, candles, food, and bodies blended into a sweet smell
that hit her just before the elbows of shoppers. Habitually, her hand slipped
beneath her left breast and thumbed the concealed purse strapped to her body.
It held over a-thousand US dollars.

All
counterfeit,
she thought.

Amai would not
abandon her flat tonight; instead she would cook Danny something special for
dinner. She bought fresh seafood, spices, white thigh-high stockings with a
lace top, and two bottles of sparkling French wine. The wine was cheap, but it
was the best she could find. She put the goods into a woven bag, and then
started back towards
Thong Nhut Boulevard
. Returning to the flat was a risk, but she would meet Danny, and in
the morning, lead Military Intelligence to Triet.

3

A
Marine detachment guarded
The Grand hotel's Dong Khoi entrance.

Danny took the crumpled invitation from the inside pocket of his
dinner jacket and gave it to a stone-faced Sergeant. The Marine let Danny
through, and he went up the steps and through the doors. Inside, a solidly
built Captain stood in the doorway wearing the short-sleeved dress uniform; the
sleeves stretched skin-tight around his big biceps.

The Captain
said: 'Tough day, buddy?'

'A bombing-'

'You saved the
girl.'

'She
lived?' 

The Captain
looked smug. 'Did you see who the
target
was?'

Danny felt
professionally embarrassed; tunnel vision had obviously stopped him seeing the
full picture. He shook his head.

'A South
Vietnamese politician. Dead.' 

The Captain
extended a big hand connected to a thick, hairy forearm. 'Captain Nash. Intelligence.'

Danny shook his
hand. Nash's grip was excessively strong. Early-thirties with a solid build,
Nash exuded confidence. With his torso pushed forward and jaw extended, he
looked like a pro-football star.

Danny broke the
handshake and looked over Nash's shoulder for General Westmoreland. The room
was full of politicians, media heads, and Military officers from all services.

'If you don't
mind,' the Intelligence officer said. 'General Loan would like a word.'

Danny checked
his watch. 'What's this about?'

'Won't take
long.'

Danny felt
Captain Nash's hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him between conversing
dignitaries and tuxedoed wine waiters. 'Right this way.'

Nash's physical
control annoyed Danny. He stopped. 'Excuse me. I've got someone to see-'

Nash pushed him
toward a man standing in the corner. Danny recognized the man and his heart
kicked. He was the one who had burst into Amai's flat - the hunter.

Who is this
creep?

Nash said:
'Danny. This is General Loan, Chief-of-Police.'

Loan's gangly
body reminded Danny of a stick insect. Danny shook Loan's limp hand and glared
at him.

Loan grinned.

Why am
I
nervous?
Danny thought.

'General Loan is
assisting us at the Phoenix Program in one or two matters.' Nash's movie-star
face became contemptuous. 'We'd both like to ask you a few questions about Amai
Nguyen. If that is her real name?'

The buzzing
returned to Danny's eardrums.
Chief-of-police,
he thought.
Why did
he
break into Amai's?
Why did she sneak out? Why did she go to the Trung
Hoa? Why did the thug-

Danny controlled
his racing mind. He kept quiet.
They're trawling for information,
he
told himself
.
Any question or comment he made would provoke an attack.
Staying quiet was the safe-play. The journalists play.  

Loan accepted a
canapé from a waiter. 'I'm impressed by some of your recent articles.' He
contemplated the canapé but didn't eat it. 'Parrot's Beak,' he said, spitting
the B. 'Build up of VC forces. -
Tay
Ninh: weapons caches. - The Fishhook: re-location of the 33rd NVA
Division.' Loan lent toward Danny. 'All accurate. All good Intel. You mind
telling me where you're getting this stuff?'

Danny pictured
Amai. 'Journalists call it legwork.'

'Is
she
giving you this stuff?'

Danny spoke
through his fingers: 'She isn't a source. I met her in a bar, that's all.' He
showed Loan his palms.

Loan and Nash
exchanged a look.

'Captain Nash
believes she
could
be working for the communists.'

Danny laughed. 'A
spy? C'mon.'

'You tell us?'

Danny shook his
head. 'No way.'

'Has she done
anything out of the ordinary? Met with anyone odd? Gone anywhere unusual?'

Loan was making
Danny angry. 'This morning was odd. What makes you think-'

Loan put his
hand on Danny's shoulder. 'She's a woman of means. Beautiful clothes. Nice flat.
Where does she get her money?'

When Danny first
met Amai, he had wondered that himself. The answer she gave now seemed thin.

'What is this?'
Danny said. 'I didn't come here to put up with an interrogation. And I
will
be reporting your break-in-'

'Be careful, Mr.
Thorn,' Loan cut in. '
Saigon
is
a very dangerous place if you mix with the wrong people.'

Danny felt
threatened. 'If I'm not mistaken gentlemen, war-zone journalism is always
dangerous.'

'You don't know
what you're getting into.' Loan put the canapé in his mouth and chewed.

Danny turned to
Nash, said: 'Nice meeting you, Captain,' and walked away.

'Likewise.'

Danny weaved his
way through the crowd, looking for General Westmoreland.
I'll see what he
thinks about this General Loan.

Strong fingers
tapped Danny's shoulder. 'Danny Thorn?'

'Yes.' Danny saw
that it was General Weyand, Commander Two Field Force. Weyand wore an
impressive array of campaign ribbons, including several Distinguished Service
Medals and a Silver Star. Danny was aware of General Weyand's distinguished
history. He had served under the legendary, Vinegar Joe Stilwell in Burma, but
had earned the Silver Star in Korea, for driving back the Chinese Army's savage
1951 offensive.

Weyand shook his
hand and smiled.

Danny said:
'Have you seen General Westmoreland? I was supposed to meet him-' Danny checked
his watch, again. 'Ten minutes ago.'

Weyand put his
hand on Danny's back and steered him toward the door. 'General Westmoreland
isn't here. General Abrams came in unannounced.'

'Damn.'

'Let's get some
air.'

Weyand guided
Danny down the steps and onto the sidewalk before taking his hand off his back.

Loan's grilling
had made Danny sweat, and he pulled at the bottom of his shirt to cool his
chest.     

Weyand lent in
and Danny tasted the General's bad breath. 'We have your brother, Chaske over
here - good man.'

'Yeah. I haven't
seen him for months - I hope we can catch-up.'

Weyand lowered
his voice: 'Can I trust you?'

Danny felt Weyand's
intensity and nodded. 

Weyand said: 'I
think we can be of mutual use to each other-'

'I'm not for
sale, General.'

'Don't
misunderstand me.' Weyand's halitosis was unbearable. 'I've looked into you,
Danny. Something big is happening and I need someone I can trust. Are you that
man?'

Danny could tell
that Weyand was both genuine and serious. He also knew how to recognize an
opportunity. 'What do you need, General?'

'I need you to
meet someone for me - in
Thailand
.'

'Who?'

'A retired
General who can't be seen in
Saigon
. They'll be plenty in it for you, my friend. What'd ya say?'

'How could I say
no?'

Weyand looked
around. 'Be Outside Hangar Thirty-eight at zero-six-hundred. You're flying to
Ubon. Don't attempt to contact me -
I'll
contact you.'

Danny felt a
tingling in his bowels. He had no idea what Weyand was getting him into, but it
sounded like the break of a lifetime.

Danny looked
back to the doorway, shielded by two big Marines. 'General. What do you know
about this General Loan?'

'Very little.
Why?'

'No reason.'

Danny turned to
go; Amai's flat was ten minutes walk, and he was getting anxious to see her.

'Danny.'

'Yeah.'

'Be careful out
there.
Saigon
isn't what it
seems.'

* * *

Danny arrived at Amai's feeling more than
troubled.

It had been the
longest day of his life, and he still didn't know how he was going to approach
her with Loan's accusations.

Unwanted images
of the child's leg kept popping into his head, along with the words of a Sun
Tzu quote:
All war is based on deception.
He put the flashbacks down to
his overactive imagination, and tried to ignore them. 

I need a
shower, a meal, and a good night's sleep,
he
thought.

At Amai's he
always got the first two, never the third.

Amai's staircase
felt steeper than usual. He climbed to her landing and his lower-back began to
ache. Danny saw the splintered door jamb, the raw timber standing out against
the dark varnish.

What was it
about?
Amai had clearly lied. 

He pushed the
door open and a soft light pulled him inside. Tall, mauve candles were burning
around the room, their light dancing over the walls and ceiling. He smelled the
lavender and let his shoulders slump. He dropped his camera bag on the floor
beside the bed and looked around for Amai.

She came toward
him wearing a white, lace bra, panties, and thigh-high stockings; the white
lingerie fluorescent against her honey skin. 

She handed him a
flute of bubbly. The glass was cool. She flashed her bedroom eyes and he began
to harden. Her arms went around his neck. Her skin was hot. She kissed him. Her
hot tongue darted in and out of his mouth. He could not control his desire. He
never could. Not with Amai.

She unzipped his
fly. Danny swung her back onto the bed, pinched the lace of her panties, and
pulled them down her thighs. Her pubic mound was shaved smooth and she smelled
of lavender and a musky scent that was erotically familiar.

Danny's eyes
contoured her body. She drove him wild.

Then he was
inside her.

* * *

After dinner, Danny's nerves returned. He
emptied his wine and savored its effect.

Amai poured them
both another. She wore a sleek mauve dressing-gown of oriental cut, open at the
front. She said: 'How was your afternoon?'

In the
candlelight, he told Amai about his day, leaving out following her to The Trung
Hoa, and the grilling from Nash and Loan. He described the bombing and choked-up;
but he studied Amai's face. Hearing about the dead mother, the injured child,
and the distraught father, Amai's mouth dropped.

She said:
'That's horrific.'

Her eyes turned
glassy, her movements twitchy. Her sorrow wasn't faked.  

'I heard the
blast,' she said. 'It's awful to think we can do this to our own.'

Danny tensed.
'Where were you?'

Her eyes
smoldered, and then she said: 'Hunting out the best ingredients for a romantic
dinner for two - of course. Lotus root and ginger are not easy to find, let alone
prawns. 

They smiled at
each other. Danny said: 'Thank you my darling. I think it was your best yet.'

She giggled.
'Darling is the strangest word I've ever heard - but I love it.'

'The bomb,'
Danny said. 'Seems the Viet Cong were involved. Would your contacts know
anything?'

There was a
knock at the door and they both tensed.

Danny got up and
made his voice deep: 'Who is it.'

The reply was a
small boy's: 'I have something for Mister Thorn.'

Danny went to
the broken door and pulled it ajar. A boy of no more than ten handed him an
envelope through the gap, and then ran back down the stairs, almost toppling at
the bend.

Danny opened it.
It held a single slip of typed paper. He knew it was from General Weyand. Danny
thought it unusual for a top Military officer to leak to the press this way,
but Danny would not betray him; trust was the name of the game at this level. A
story like this could make history - Danny knew he was on to a winner - he
could just feel it.

Amai leaned on
his back. 'What is it?'

'Nothing.' He
shrugged out of her hold, walked to his satchel, and put the envelope inside. 'Just
some info for a story.'

'Important?'

'Confidential.'
Now's
the time,
he thought.
I have to ask her.

His throat
tightened. 'Amai,' he said; his tongue suddenly too thick to form words. 'I'm
not here to take sides.' Hesitating, not knowing how to proceed, he ran his
fingers through his thick hair. Then he looked into her liquid brown eyes.

'Military
Intelligence says you're a Communist spy.'