Into the Treeline Read online

  He entered a small storefront beneath a sign that announced that herein one could find the finest tailor in Hue. A young Vietnamese greeted him. He asked to see the owner. The Viet asked the nature of his business. He replied that it was a matter of exchange. The Viet smiled knowingly. It was no secret that the Indian who owned the shop was the biggest black market money changer in the province. Many Americans came here. For greenback dollars one could get Military Pay Certificate (MPC) scrip at a rate of two for one. It was a good deal for both sides. The Indian sold the green to rich Vietnamese who wished to avoid the restrictions on currency transfers out of country. Most of them, being prudent, were salting away the profits they made from the war in foreign bank accounts. The MPC came from the many illegal businesses catering to the American troops; the two principals being prostitution and drugs.

  For Jim it was the perfect cover. Nobody would be suspicious of one more American coming in to change money. Such transactions were illegal, of course, so nobody would think it strange that he had taken such precautions not to be followed.

  He was admitted to the back room. The man who sat there was recognizable from the photo in the file.

  “You wish to change money?” he asked. His voice was low and pleasant, tinged only slightly with a sing-song Indian accent.

  “Not exactly,” Jim answered. “I’m a friend of Mike’s.”

  If the man was surprised he did not allow it to show. “Ah, the unfortunate Captain McGivern,” he said. “So sad about him. He was a good friend and a valued business associate. Did he have family? I have missed him.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Jim said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “But there’s no reason that you and I can’t be friends too. On the same basis. Mike left some very good reports on you. Said that you were the man to see if I really wanted to know what was going on in the province.”

  “The late captain was too kind.” Too kind by far, the Indian thought furiously. “You must understand that things are not as they once were. Many of the people who talked to me are no longer alive. Those who are no longer wish to take risks. Tet taught them that it can be very unhealthy to be suspected of collaboration with the government.” He had hoped that all records of his cooperation with the Americans had died with the late captain, but had suspected that he would not be so lucky.

  “But such things have happened before? You have been here for a very long time. Before the Americans came you had French friends. Times were hard then too, were they not? Still, you always managed to succeed. There are those who say it is because you manage to please all sides—the French, the Viet Minh, the Polish members of the International Control Commission in the interregnum, some say you even have links with the Chinese. I am sure that a resourceful man such as you can reestablish contact with people who will talk to you. Especially since the alternative is so unattractive. The tiger cages on Con Son Island are not a place you wish to be. That is where they put the black marketeers, I understand.”

  The Indian lifted his hands, palms up, and shrugged eloquently. “You are very convincing,” he said. “I assume the terms will be the same as with the unfortunate Captain McGivern?”

  “The same,” Jim agreed. “I protect you from investigation. You continue to make money. All you have to do is to tell me the things I want to know about the names I give you. Very little risk, and a great deal of benefit for you.”

  “Then it seems I have no choice. May I offer you some tea?”

  Jim accepted. “The first thing I need to know,” he said, “is anything you have on the province chief. Or anyone close to him. I need some leverage.”

  “You are dealing with a very powerful man. One who can make you disappear. It has happened before.”

  “Thanks for the warning. But this is not a subject for discussion. Tell me what you know.”

  As he had suspected, the Indian knew a great deal. The PC had his fingers in just about every illegal enterprise in the province, but that was no surprise. And there were few hooks on which to hang him. It was a small item, offered as an aside, that gave Jim an idea. The trip had so far been well worth it.

  The next hour was spent in planning for communications. Dead letter drops were the preferred method. Loading and servicing signals were agreed upon, as were locations.

  “By the way,” said Jim, as he was preparing to leave, “the rumor going around has it that before Tet someone told the VC exactly where Captain McGivern slept. I don’t know if that’s true or not. What I do know is that you now have a very active interest in my well-being. Because if anything happens to me you’ll never be able to sleep again. You will know that when you do someone will come to visit you in the night. And your sleep will never end. Know also that you are not the only one in the province with information. Each thing you tell me will be checked with someone else. If I ever find out that you have lied to me, I will be the one to come and visit you. I’ll see you again, Mr. Chandragar.”

  The Indian’s eyes widened as Jim called him by his real name. No one was supposed to know that. He hadn’t used it for many years. This was a dangerous man. Still, it could have been worse. There were some things the young American obviously did not know. And it was useful to have a protector. He’d survived this long by playing the various factions against one another. As long as he continued to be useful, he would be safe. He smiled at the captain and watched him go, then called to his assistant and berated him for an hour for infractions real or imagined. Then, feeling somewhat more in control, he set about reestablishing contact with the members of his net.

  Jim’s next stop was Provincial Headquarters. His request for an audience with the province chief was relayed through innumerable layers of bureaucracy. Jim sat in the waiting room, leafing through old magazines, intent on staying there as long as it took. When finally they decided they weren’t going to get rid of him he was ushered into a spacious office.

  The cleats of his jungle boots squished slightly on the tile as he walked toward the desk placed at the far end of the room. The man behind the desk wore sunglasses even though the room was curtained into semidarkness. Jim had expected one of the corpulent mandarin types. He was disappointed. The province chief was thin, intense. His face was deeply carved from cheek to chin with lines that would seem to prevent him from ever breaking into a smile. His uniform was immaculate. Smoke curled from a cigarette held European-style in manicured fingers.

  “You are welcome, Captain,” he said in French-accented English. “Please, take a seat. May I offer you something to drink, a scotch, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ll not waste your time, Colonel. I know that you are a busy man. May I speak frankly, sir?”

  “Of course. I prefer to speak frankly. Your predecessor also had that trait. A most charming man. We miss him.”

  That’s the second time today I’ve heard that lie, thought Jim. “Then I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “I want to take the PRU out on operation. Soon. They need it. You know that our superiors want it. Do you have any objections?”

  “You Americans are always so eager,” the man said, sitting back in his chair. “Why should it be tomorrow, and not next week, or even next month? The war has been here for a long time. It is not going to go away.”

  “And neither are the Communists. Right now they are weak. But they are regrouping, and each day they grow stronger. Now is the time to act. Your daughter would understand that. She goes to a university in the United States. If someone were threatening her, as the Communists threaten your country, would you not take immediate action?”

  The colonel sat very still. His face was even more rigid.

  Jim continued, “University of Oklahoma, isn’t it? Good school. I have a couple of friends who go there. They might even know one another.”

  “I have no objections to your conducting operations,” the province chief said. “What made you think I did? Of course you can go out. The men need it.”

  “Then what they said
about you was true, Colonel. That you are one of the most aggressive of field commanders, that you are a true Vietnamese patriot. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He was a little amazed at his own capacity for hypocrisy.

  After the American left the colonel called his aide, who had been listening to the conversation from behind a panel. “I want to know everything about this man,” he said. “Where he goes, who he talks to, what his patterns are. He may be dangerous.”

  Chapter VI

  If Captain Vanh was impressed with the speed with which Jim had secured permission to conduct operations, he did not show it. He started the planning as if it were no big deal, as if he had expected nothing less.

  The first target was the VC district chief for Phong Dien District. He was a notorious fellow, said to be responsible for many of the atrocities perpetrated during Tet. Jim picked him because of this notoriety, because there was little doubt that he was, in fact, VC, and because the target was supposed to be so tough. Reports said he never traveled with fewer than twenty bodyguards, seldom slept in the same place twice, and at the least sign of danger retreated to the jungle, only to reemerge after the heat was off. He had been on the blacklist a very long time. The intelligence officers at the PIOCC routinely included him on the list, but expressed little hope that he would ever be apprehended. What the PIOCC did not know was the impossible target had one flaw, as did most men, if you only took the trouble to look for it. His sources told Jim that the man had a weakness for the younger female VC cadre. He also had a wife who, when confronted with the evidence of her husband’s infidelity, decided to take revenge. In exchange for protection, she agreed to let the source know the location of her philandering spouse.

  He and Vanh planned the operation carefully. They could afford no mistakes. The mission was critical, not only because of the importance of the target, but for the psychological boost it would give the PRU. A chance like this might never come again.

  The PRUs infiltrated the area around the village singly and in pairs. To all outward appearances they looked just like everyone else; the same black pajamas and Ho Chi Minh sandals, the same conical bamboo hats, the same baskets filled with fruit from the market. Inside the baskets were UZI submachineguns and M-26 fragmentation grenades. Tucked into their trousers were nine-millimeter pistols and knives. If they were challenged by the VC in the area they were to try to bluff their way through. If they could not they would try to shoot their way out. If nothing else worked they were to pull the pin on one of the grenades and blow themselves and everyone near them to bits. There was no worry about capture. Each PRU knew all too well what fate awaited him should he be taken alive. Long ago the PRU and the VC had sworn undying enmity, and no quarter was asked, or given.

  Jim and the PRU captain waited until after dark to move. Jim’s height made it impossible for him to try to infiltrate during the day. They rode in the rear of a covered vegetable truck to a prearranged dropoff point. As the driver slowed to go around a curve they jumped out, rolling into the underbrush and waiting anxiously to see if anyone had detected them.

  As they set off through the jungle, Jim felt all his old skills return. It was nice to see that he had not gotten too rusty. The night enveloped them, the distant sound of insects and nightbirds their only companions. They moved silently and slowly. Now the only sound was the lack of sound as the denizens of the forest, sensing their presence, fell silent around them. They seemed to be moving in a bubble of quiet.

  Travel was not difficult. This was not the tangled jungle to which he had grown so accustomed in II Corps. It was almost like a well-tended forest; wood gatherers had picked the floor clean. The trees were spaced widely enough that light from the full moon filtered through, allowing for fast movement. It was a perfect night. Jim was aware of a pleasant tightness in his chest, the stricture of compressed excitement. His skin tingled with anticipation. The trunks of the giant trees loomed whitely in the ghostly light. Their footsteps activated the luminescence of rotting vegetation. Was it strange, he wondered, that he was enjoying this, that he could appreciate the unearthly beauty of this hostile place? Why wasn’t he like other men, who could be satisfied with their safe lives far from danger, who could savor the little victories won on the battlefields of corporate war? Instead he was on his way to almost certainly kill someone, and possibly be killed.

  Captain Vanh’s navigation was good. They reached the assembly point directly, without having to search. The squad leaders of the detachment were already there. After a few words from the captain they moved off soundlessly to rejoin their units. Jim checked his watch; five minutes to go. Perfect timing. So far he was impressed with the performance of the men.

  It had been his habit on previous trips to Vietnam to scoff at the fighting ability of the Vietnamese, as did most other Americans. Now he was not so sure he had been right. This group was as professional as any he had ever seen. The next few moments would tell whether his impression was correct.

  The plan was brutally direct and simple. Two squads were to set up an ambush on the trail on the other side of the village. The remainder of the detachment was to infiltrate as closely as possible on the near side, then go in shooting as soon as they were detected.

  The hope was that the VC would attempt to escape, whereupon the ambush would take them under fire. Jim had wanted to do it differently, to go in himself with perhaps one or two other people and attempt to capture the VC chief in his bed. He’d had to admit, after he had proposed it to Captain Vanh, that the chances of pulling off a movement of that type were slim. But it seemed to him to offer the best chance of taking the man alive. Vanh had wanted to go in shooting from the start. They had finally compromised: They would go in silently until detected, then he and Vanh would dash for the house in which they had been told the district chief would be spending the night. Perhaps they would be able to get to him before he ran away into the certain death of the ambush.

  Each movement was now excruciatingly slow. It was all very fine to practice this; in practice failure was met only by the jeers of your comrades. Here it meant not only the possibility of your death, which could be accepted, but also the death of people who depended upon you, which could not be. So you were extra careful; the foot slowly, gingerly touching the ground, moving twigs and leaves out of the way, inching forward, progress measured not in yards or feet, but in millimeters. A route had been picked that gave them the most concealment up until the last minute—along a scrubby stand of banana plants, past a pigsty at the edge of the huts, into the village itself. You had to remember, moving like this, that the full moon cast a shadow almost as distinct as the one in daylight. Stay to the shadows of the buildings, then, and when you had to cross an open area stay low and move very slowly. Quick movement attracted the eye.

  There! To the side a sentry, half asleep, filling the vision to the exclusion of all else. Your movement is carefully chosen to take him from the flank, in the blind zone where he cannot see you unless he turns his head, and even if he does you move so slowly that he does not pick up the change from the ordinary that man depends upon to tell him that something is wrong.

  Close enough now. In one movement clap your hand over his mouth, push his head sharply over to one side to constrict his airway, the knife thrusting upward into the solar plexus. The flesh is resistant, but not so much that the carefully honed blade cannot penetrate deeply. Push the haft quickly from one side to the other, the double edge severing arteries and veins, the suddenly loosened flow filling the stomach cavity through the torn diaphragm, the lungs awash in rich warmth. No outcry. No chance. What does he feel, you wonder, here in the last moments of his life? There cannot be much pain; it is over too quickly. Does he feel despair, knowing that it is ended? Is it, perhaps, even a relief? Lower him softly to the ground, feeling almost affectionate. You have shared the most intimate of embraces. Withdraw the knife, pulling hard to overcome resistance. The flesh is unwilling to give up its invader. Upon the blade remains only a th
in film, looking black in the moonlight.

  Perimeter breached. They should have had more sentries. Perhaps they have grown lax in the long rest. It is difficult not to. Man’s natural tendency is to think that things will always remain the same.

  Closer now to the target. Hearing preternaturally clear, the slight rustling of the feet as they touch the ground sounding like clarion bells. How can they not hear it? The crack of a small twig, unfelt at first by the foot, is like a rifle shot.

  Vanh is beside him at the entrance to the hut. In the dim light his thin face looks like a skull. A skull grinning in triumph. He steps in, Jim following closely, and views the corpulent body of the district chief with glee. He motions to Jim—take the woman. Jim moves to the other side, stands ready to grab her to prevent the screams that could kill them all. Her breathing is soft and even, masked by the snores of the man.

  Vanh takes a T-shaped piece of metal from his waistband, moves slightly closer to his target, and with a quick motion drives the sharpened end of a four-inch spike forcefully behind the ear.

  There is a quiver, a quick and jerky drumming of the legs as nerve synapses fire wildly. Then nothing. The woman moans, stirs. Jim is poised to shut her off. Then she subsides, rolls over, and petulantly pulls the covers from her dead companion. Her breathing again becomes regular.

  Vanh offers his instrument to Jim, who pushes it away. Vanh shrugs, motions “outside.” They go, as silently as they came.

  Away from the village they summon the troops. It takes a long while for everyone to assemble. The ambush party is disgruntled. They have been cheated out of action. In rapid-fire Vietnamese Captain Vanh explains that this way is much better, then when the guards wake in the morning to find their leader dead there will be much loss of face, and not a little fear. Who could have come so silently in the night? How could the man, sleeping in the middle of the village among many guards, have been killed? How could anyone feel safe when such things were possible? The story would spread, and would be embellished by many tellings, and no VC would be able to sleep well for a very long time.