Red Flags (24 page)

"I know. We've got to watch our butts," I said.

He puffed his cigar, sending out a cloud of pungent blue smoke. "Okay, Captain, go put it to Major Hopp."

I found Hopp socializing outside his quarters. We walked toward the perimeter where we wouldn't be overheard. When I finished laying out our plans for the VC grass crop, I said, "You think it's doable?"

"Hell, yeah." He grinned, eyes dancing, and slapped me on the shoulder. "Finally a little sizzle. How soon do we perpetrate this arson?"

"Soon as possible."

"Okay, we'll hand-roast the product for them. Could be a marketing breakthrough."

 

Miser emptied out the signal shack and set Hopp up with a secure voice channel to talk to his Air Force pals in Tuy Hoa. An hour later, it was a done deal.

"Hallelujah," Miser exulted, practically dancing for joy at the possibility of trashing the dope crop and getting back to Saigon.

We flew out at first light, Hopp in front, me in back again. Airman Lewis went on duty in the commo bunker. We reached the field and circled. Major Hopp reported our hot contact: massive ground fire, figures on the ground maneuvering, and all hell generally breaking loose. Lewis acknowledged and requested a forward air controller and any available flight. A pair of Skyraiders armed with napalm zipped over from a neighboring province to lend assistance and assumed a slightly higher orbit than ours. The FAC arrived and joined the circle. Union rules: only Air Force personnel could direct Air Force pilots. The FAC confirmed enemy structures and movement on the ground.

Hopp rolled in to mark the field with white-phosphorus rockets and resumed his position in the aerial wheel. The FAC added several more. The lead fighter peeled off over the target and dropped its pods along one sloped edge. The fire would spread up the incline if we were lucky. The second plane rolled in, and the lower margin of the field burst into an orange fireball. The Skyraiders made two more passes with rockets and really got it cooking, then turned toward the coast to return to base. It was the most we could risk at one go. We didn't really dare report any more ground fire to get additional fighter-bombers diverted.

Airman Lewis and the forward air controller observed the usual etiquette, thanking the fighter jocks and each other, after which Major Hopp thanked his counterpart, the fighter pilots, and Airman Lewis. Tomorrow we'd hit another field. While they were stroking one another in the customary manner, I got ready to empty an AK-47 into the thin fuselage of our light plane.

"Hold your ears," I said on the intercom.

"Whoa!" Hopp exclaimed.

"What?"

"Aim at the sides, not the floor. Don't hit any wires. I don't wanna lose the tail controls or we'll have to fly circles all the way home."

"Right." I contorted myself and pulled the trigger, putting rounds into the skin. The report wasn't too terrible given all the noise in the cockpit. Hopp turned for home. Shell casings needed gathering up and the bullet holes required doctoring so they wouldn't reveal anything. I broke down the Kalashnikov and stuffed the pieces in a kit bag. We were given a heroes' welcome by Hopp's mechanic, who set to work on the fuselage. Airman Lewis and Major Hopp filed their reports and made ready for a repeat performance the following morning over the next field, twelve kilometers farther west.

Ruchevsky and I procured two large cans of Australian beer from Sergeant Miser's small stash in the mess-hall fridge and retired to the northwest-corner bunker, on the roof of which resided the .50-caliber machine gun, its long shells glistening in the linked ammo belt. We ducked inside, checking first for tripwires. We made ourselves comfortable and congratulated each other on our campaign against the profit motive in Asia.

Our private drinking establishment provided an unexpected benefit. The firing ports overlooked the road to the airstrip and the modest USAID compound next door. Before long, Captain Nhu drove past the dozing guard into the barren USAID compound and hurried inside the residence. He came back out with Whalen Lund, and the two of them went off in the captain's vehicle. I called our gate guard on the field phone to find out where the pair were headed.

"They're just turning into the ARVN garrison," I announced to Ruchevsky.

"Hmmm. Off to see the wizard?" He burped. "Command performance by USAID man? Looks like Lund's in this business all right. Probably using USAID fertilizer to boost the yield per acre, and the newest herbicides. You know he's getting his." He took a pull of beer. "There's no way Chinh wouldn't have his snout in the trough too. Lund and his VC partners are undoubtedly keeping the colonel happy. So that's at least two entrepreneurs we've pissed off today. We should do some probing while they're agitated and vulnerable. See what we can dig up."

"I doubt Captain Nhu or Whalen Lund are in any mood for a heart-to-heart," I said. "Chinh either—at this time."

Ruchevsky actually giggled.

"How about their friend from the jungle market," he said, "Father Calogaras? I'm pretty curious to meet the invisible frog priest, find out what he knows about this all. How do we find him?" He looked at me. "Well? You're the gumshoe."

Actually, I'd given it some thought. I took out a map of the province and located the place where we had spied on the jungle market.

"He arrived on an old bicycle, without a rucksack or even a water container."

"Right." Ruchevsky nodded.

"With the poor condition of the road and in this heat, it's unlikely he'd pedal more than an hour."

"How far could he ride in an hour along that track?"

"Five or six kilometers," I said.

I spread out my map on the sandbag ledge. Measuring six kilometers with a tie-off string, I drew a crude circle around the meeting spot.

"The only Catholic Montagnards I know of," I said, "are Bahnar. None around here. The converts in this province are all Protestant. If Calogaras has parishioners, they're likely Vietnamese Catholics."

There was only one Vietnamese village between Cheo Reo and the jungle road where we had spied on the NVA market. It was less than two kilometers from where we stood.

"Cao Tin," I said. "A mile away."

Ruchevsky looked embarrassed. "You think he could be living that close and stay out of sight this long?" He paused for my answer.

"Only one way to find out."

VC roadblocks tended to come down at around four in the afternoon, the day's toll-taking and blockading done. We let the commo bunker know our destination and estimated return time, gathered our gear and a radio, and set out by jeep five after the hour. Road 2 ran west–southwest through scrub and tall grasses twice the height of a man, past a Montagnard village on the outskirts, past groves of trees and stands of bamboo flanking streambeds. I radioed in our progress.

Just before the hamlet, we passed a checkpoint manned by South Vietnamese militia in conical hats and peasants' black pajamas, barefoot and armed with carbines. They made no move to stop us and we rolled past unacknowledged.

Locals in heavy black cotton padded about the town's market square, even more modest than Cheo Reo's. Muslins and tarps interlaced and formed a shaded alley for platforms and stalls. Vendors and shoppers looked up as we drove by. The sun beat down and there wasn't a whisper of wind, not so much as a breeze. We squinted against the sharp tropical light. The flag atop a pole hung limp and barely visible. The colors were wrong: yellow and blue. A yellow star undoubtedly hidden in the folds. What had we driven into?

I nudged Big John and nodded toward the Communist flag. Ruchevsky casually slid his weapon off his shoulder. We pulled up outside the only structure in the town that was roofed and sided with wood, with a slightly elevated wooden floor. We sauntered in, as if the circumstances called for bravado. A gray-haired Caucasian male wearing shorts and a blue work shirt with the sleeves ripped off was bent over the floor in back, hammering. When he stood up, he looked haggard and hollow-eyed, his complexion like leather. He didn't seem happy to see us.

"Father Calogaras?" Ruchevsky said.

"Yes. I am he," he answered in English and tossed the hammer aside with a loud bang.

"We have been searching for you for quite some time."

He wiped his face with a plaid cloth. "
Voilà.
I am here, you are here, we are here. And soon
they
will join us, damn it."

Ruchevsky attempted an ingratiating smile. "We wanted to talk to you about the political situation in the province, and we wonder if you might help us."

Father Calogaras was already shaking his head no before Ruchevsky finished. "I have no side in your conflict," he insisted. "I'm a Franciscan. My purpose, my mission, is people."

"Might we persuade you to help us?"

"Please." He held up a wrinkled palm. "Don't bother."

I said, "Are you a Communist sympathizer?"

"Though my politics are left, I am not a Communist, no. What I
am
is unsupported by my church and the Saigon government. The provincial commissar and I, we have an understanding that permits me to continue my work for the time being."

"How is that possible?" Ruchevsky said.

"We are similar, he and I. He is also a believer."

"In a faith that denies yours. Is it true you administer social services for the Communists?"

"It is.
Action civique.
"

"Why?"

"Because I have the skills, and persons here are poor and need services, because the provincial commissar funds them as opposed to making off with the allocations."

"Do you know his name?" Ruchevsky asked.

"
Comrade,
" he said facetiously, batting away the question. "What does it matter? They don't use their actual names anyway."

"Are you aware how he finances their insurgency and your work?"

"Extortion, I assume. The sale of whatever contraband comes to hand. Taxes? The VC demand a bottle of rice from each of the families once a week and maybe a couple of hundred piasters more from the few shopkeepers at year's end. I am uninterested in how the National Liberation Front finances the programs. I am indifferent."

I said, "Even if it includes harvesting and selling opiates? A practice Hanoi condemns?"

His fingers pinched together in front of his face. "To finance their colonial empire, the French sold opium to the Vietnamese through state-sponsored dens and shops. They rendered the drug commonplace." The hand flew open. "I wouldn't condemn the Front for exploiting this. Perhaps it is part of their strategy to return the favor and cloud the minds of the West. In any event, the brown genie is long gone from its lamp. I can only try to do some good in my immediate environs. As long as I do not proselytize, the commissar lets me do my work."

"Father Calogaras," I said, "do you meet regularly with the Viet Cong?"

"Of course. From time to time I go to the Southern Liberation Army to plead for more funds, more school supplies, medicines, for help digging channels for irrigation or sewage. Occasionally they will lend me their troops for these labors since there are so few young men left in the villages. In return, they tolerate my presence." The barest smile crossed his deeply creased face.

"How long do you think they will let you operate here?"

"As long as I am useful to them"—he shrugged—"and they to me. I pose no threat. They want their country. I would be happy for them to have it."

The town had gone quiet. Not a person on the street.

"Is that what you were doing at the market in the jungle," I said, "agitating for more resources?"

Mild surprise registered on his face. "Yes." He eyed the open front doorway. "I really can't say more. They will not be pleased that we've spoken. It will take many hours to persuade them I am not collaborating. The longer you stay, the more difficult they'll be to convince, and the more unpleasant. You need to leave. It would be unfortunate for us both if you were found here when they come."

I stood fast. "Why were the others at your rendezvous in the jungle? The ARVN and the two American civilians?"

"Monsieur, you two really must go," he said.

"Is that what he handed you out in the jungle in that package? An allocation for your programs?"

"I need you to leave."

"I need an answer."

"
Yes,
" he said, exasperated. "Money for the hamlets."

I said, "Why is there a Communist flag on the mast outside?"

He glared at me as if the question were absurd. "Because ... they claim the village as theirs."

"Aren't those South Vietnamese militiamen at the road checkpoint?"

"Regional militia, yes. What of it? They wisely never enter the village. You would do well to emulate them."

"Are the people all VC sympathizers here?"

"Not all, no. You know the Vietnamese. Their sympathies are complicated. If one son goes north to the People's Army, they send the other south to the Army of the Republic. Family is all the southerners are really loyal to."

"Why doesn't someone take the flag down then?"

"If someone does, the VC will kill his children in front of him, slay his wife, their relatives, pets, livestock, and bury him alive. But if you are tempted, by all means." He extended his arm toward the doorway, daring us. "If you like, you can wait some moments and discuss it with them personally."

A Vietnamese youngster burst in through the back, shivering from fear. He muttered something to Calogaras.

"People's Army irregulars," the priest announced, "less than ten minutes' walk."

"We're going," I said.

We bade the priest goodbye and left with as much decorum as we could manage, but we didn't breathe easy until well after we had passed the regional militia checkpoint and not gotten shot in the back.

"If Calogaras got a packet of money from Wolf Man, it stands to reason they all did," I said. "So Nhu's packet could have been Chinh's tribute money for his part in ensuring the shipments' safe passage. And Lund gets his cut for arranging the transport flight."

"Do you think the French priest is as innocent as he says?" John asked. "Or that missionary Slavin?"