Up Country (74 page)

We’d already done this routine on Highway 6, but this time I was
hanging tough. I acknowledged that I’d heard her with a wave of my hand and continued on.

I heard the motorcycle rev, then listened to the engine growing fainter as she drove off.

About ten minutes later, the motorcycle engine was behind me again. She pulled up to me and said, “Last chance, Paul.”

“Promise?”

“I was afraid you’d gotten a ride, then I’d lose you.”

I kept walking, and she kept up with me by accelerating and downshifting the bike. She said, “You can drive.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “You have to get to Hanoi, then fly out of here Sunday. I need to get you to Hanoi or I’m in trouble.”

“I thought you were supposed to kill me.”

“That’s ridiculous. Come on. Time to go home.”

“I’ll find my own way home, thank you. Did it twice.”

“Please.”

“Susan, go to hell.”

“Don’t say that. Please come with me.”

We both stood there on the dirt road and looked at each other. I said, “I really don’t want you with me.”

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s over.”

“Is this the thanks I get for not killing you and Mr. Vinh?”

“You’re all heart.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t care if you burn.”

She lit up and said, “Okay, here’s what happened. In Tran Van Vinh’s letter, he said that he was in the Treasury Building in the Citadel of Quang Tri City, wounded, on the second floor, looking down. He saw two men and a woman enter, and they opened a wall safe and began taking out bags. They were civilians, and Mr. Vinh, then Sergeant Vinh, speculated that they were either looting the treasury, or they were on official business and were taking the loot to a safe place. Mr. Vinh said in his letter that these people opened some of the bags, and he could see gold coins, American currency, and some jewelry.” She drew on her cigarette. “You see where this is going. Do you want to go there?”

“This is why I’m here. You don’t listen to me.”

She smiled and continued, “This story comports with the fact that the treasury at Quang Tri was looted during the battle. It’s in the history books. I looked it up.”

“Finish the story.”

She continued, “Sergeant Vinh in his letter says that he had run out of ammunition several hours before, so he just watched. A few minutes later, the lieutenant—Hines—came into the building, and he spoke to the three civilians, as though he might be on a mission with them to save the contents of the safe. But all of a sudden, Lieutenant Hines raises his rifle and kills the two men. The woman was pleading for her life, but he killed her with a rifle shot to the head. Captain Blake enters, sees what happened, and he and Lieutenant Hines have an argument, and Lieutenant Hines starts to raise his rifle, but Captain Blake fires his pistol and kills Lieutenant Hines. Then, Captain Blake secures the cash and gold by putting it back in the safe and locking it shut. Then he leaves.” She added, “The loot disappeared afterward.”

She threw away her cigarette and said, “So that’s what happened, and that’s what Tran Van Vinh saw and wrote to his brother in the letter.”

I looked at her for a while, then said, “I think you got the two Americans reversed.”

She sort of smiled. “You may be right. But I think it sounds better that way.”

I said, “So Edward Blake actually killed four people in cold blood and is also a thief. And this is the guy you want to be president?”

“We all make mistakes, Paul. Especially in war. Actually, I wouldn’t vote for Edward Blake myself, but he’d be good for the country.”

“Not for my country. See you around.” I turned and walked away.

She stayed abreast of me and said, “I like a man who stands up for what’s right.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “So now you know the secret. Can you keep it?”

“No.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

I stopped and looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I said to her, “Hey, this would be a good place for you to kill me.”

“It would be.” She drew the .45 automatic out of her belt and very expertly twirled it by the trigger guard and handed it to me, butt first. “Or, you can get rid of me.” I took the gun and flung it as far as I could into a flooded rice paddy.

She said, “I have another gun. Two more, in fact.”

“Susan, you’re not well.”

“I told you, my family is crazy.”

“
You’re
crazy.”

“So what? It makes me interesting. Do you think you’re completely well?”

“Look, I don’t want to argue with you out here—”

“Do you love me?”

“Sure.”

“You want my help in blowing Edward Blake out of office?”

“He’s good for the country,” I reminded her.

“Not my country. Come on. I’m running out of gas, and you’re too old to walk.”

“I was an infantryman.”

“Which war? Civil or Spanish-American? Get on. You can deal with me in Hanoi. I need a spanking.”

I smiled.

She made a U-turn around me and reached for my hand. I took it, and she pulled me toward the bike.

I got on.

We headed north, past Ban Hin, toward Lao Cai and on to Hanoi.

This would have been a pleasant outcome if I truly believed even half of what she told me.

W
e continued north on Route 12, which remained a single-lane dirt road that ran along the Na River to our left.

The sky was heavy with low, dark clouds, which looked like they were going to hang around until spring. I hadn’t seen a sunny day since we’d gone over the Hai Van Pass on the road to Hue.

To the extent that weather affects the culture, there really were two distinct Vietnams: sunny, noisy, and smiley in the south; gray, quiet, and somber up here. Guess who won the war?

Susan and I hardly said a word to each other, which was fine with me. I hate these lovers’ quarrels where one person wants to kill someone and the other doesn’t.

I tried to figure this all out, and I guess I understood most of it, at least the political, economic, and global strategy part of it. And as usual, it made about as much sense as how we got involved here in the first place. In the final analysis, it only had to make sense to the people in Washington, who thought differently than normal people.

Regarding Washington’s motivations, this was a mixture of legitimate concern about China, an unhealthy obsession with Vietnam in general, and the deeply held belief that power was like a big dick that God gave you to use and have fun with.

Aside from these profound thoughts were the human elements. For starters, Edward Blake needed to go to jail for murder. Someone else could be president.

Then there was Karl. Colonel Hellmann needed a general’s star or he’d be forced to retire, and a senior colonel trying to get a star was like a high school girl trying to get a date the night before the prom; blow jobs were not out of the question. I didn’t blame him, really, but he didn’t need to drag me into it.

And then there were the bit players, like Bill Stanley, Doug Conway, and who knew who else, who were reading from a script titled, “God Bless America,” which the producers and directors were actually going to present as, “Mr. Blake Goes to Washington,” in which President Blake fucks the Russians out of Cam Ranh Bay, makes Vietnam into an American oil company, thereby redeeming the past, and in the last act, the Seventh Fleet sails out of Cam Ranh Bay toward Red China and scares the shit out of everyone.

Maybe these people should take up tennis.

And there was Cynthia, who was manipulated by Karl Hellmann to suggest to Paul Brenner that Paul needed a mission; that this was the best way to save the relationship. Cynthia’s motives may have been pure, but if she really understood me, she would have been totally honest instead of pretending that she and Karl were not in cahoots. God save me from women who have only my best interests at heart.

And then there was Susan, my furry little kitten with the big fangs. The really scary thing was that she was truly in love with me. I seem to attract intelligent women with mental health problems. Or, to look at it another way, the problem might be me. I can usually blame Dickie Johnson for most of my lady problems, but I think, this time, it was my heart.

There was a big town ahead, according to the map, Lai Chau, which unfortunately was not Lao Cai, and not even close.

We had the Montagnard wrappings on so that out on the road, the military wouldn’t spot us for Westerners and pull us over for fun. But as we approached Lai Chau, we took off the scarves, the fur-trimmed leather hats, and goggles, and pulled into a gas station in the middle of the town, which looked like a less prosperous Dien Bien Phu.

Susan used the facility while I pumped gas with a hand crank. Is it slower if you’re pumping liters instead of gallons? Or faster?

Susan returned, sans blue dye on her face and hands, and said, “I’ll pump. You can go use the bucket.”

“I like pumping.”

She smiled and said, “Can I hold your nozzle?”

Totally nuts. But a great lay.

“Are you angry at me?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I think we did this.”

“Okay, do you believe that I’m on your side? That I believe as you do that Edward Blake needs to give a public accounting of how William Hines died?”

“Absolutely.” I finished pumping and asked her, “You got any dong?”

She paid the attendant, who was standing near us, looking us over, and checking out the BMW. Why don’t these guys pump the gas? Things will be different here when all the gas stations are American-owned and -operated. That’ll show these bastards who really won the war.

I wanted to drive, so I mounted up. Susan came up beside me and said, “Look at me, Paul.”

I looked at her.

She said, “I could not have killed that man. You have to believe that.”

I looked into her eyes and said, “I do believe that.”

She smiled and said, “You, however, piss me off.”

I smiled, but said, “It’s not a joke.”

“I know. Sorry. I make bad jokes when I’m tense.”

“Jump on.”

She got on the back and put her arms around me.

I started the engine and off we went, up Route 12, which was mostly uphill as the Na Valley rose higher.

Susan was hungry, as usual, and we pulled over and had a picnic lunch beside a foul-smelling rice paddy. Bananas and rice cakes, and a liter of water. The last good protein I’d had was the porcupine last night.

Susan lit a post-prandial cigarette and said, “If you’re wondering why they picked you, one reason was because they wanted a combat veteran. There’s this sort of bond between old soldiers, even if they fought on different sides, and I could see that immediately between you and Mr. Vinh.”

I thought about that and replied, “There’s no bond between me and Colonel Mang.”

“Actually, there is.”

I ignored that and said, “So, I was picked by a computer? Handsome,
bilingual in French and Vietnamese, extensive knowledge of the country, loves native food, motorcycle license, and people skills.”

She smiled. “Don’t forget good lay.”

“Right. Tell you what—they miscalculated.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

I let that one go, and we mounted up.

About sixty kilometers and two hours out of Lai Chau, the road forked and there was actually a sign: to the left was the Laotian border, ten kilometers, and to the right was Lao Cai, sixty-seven kilometers. I took the right fork, not wanting to go to Laos on this trip, and definitely not wanting to run into any more border guards or military.

In my rearview mirror, however, I saw a military jeep kicking up dust behind me. I said to Susan, “Soldiers.”

She didn’t look back, but bent over and found the jeep in the mirror. “You can easily outrun them on a rutted dirt road.”

What she meant was that the tire ruts were very bumpy, whereas the crown in the middle was smoother. I twisted the throttle and got the bike up to sixty KPH, and I saw that the cloud of dust behind me was getting farther away.

We kept up that speed for half an hour, and I figured if the jeep was going half our speed, then he was fifteen kilometers behind us.

She said to me, “I told you a motorcycle was better.”

A lot of this trip had been thought out ahead of time, and what seemed to me random or serendipitous had been calculated. I’d made the mistake of underestimating my friends in Washington, who I knew couldn’t be as stupid as they seemed.

This was a totally desolate stretch of road, called, according to the map, 4D, which obviously meant desolate. It was getting cold and dark. I took Susan’s hand and looked at her watch. It was about 7
P.M.
The sun sinks fast in these latitudes, as I found out in ’68, and you can get caught in the dark by surprise.

Route 4D was starting to climb into high mountains, and I could see towering peaks to our front. To make matters worse, a ground fog was developing. We were not going to make it to Lao Cai.

Once again, I started looking around for a place to pull over where we could spend the night. I could actually see my breath, and I guessed the temperature was close to freezing.

Just as I was about to pull over on a small patch of ground near a mountain stream, I saw a sign that said
Sa Pa
, and in English,
Scenic Beauty
.
Good Hotels
. I stopped and stared at the sign. Maybe it was a backpacker joke. I said, “Is that for real?”

Susan informed me, “There’s a hill station town up here called Sa Pa. Old French summer resort. Someone in my Hanoi office went there. Let’s see the map.”

I took out the map, and we both looked at it in the fading light. Sure enough, there was a little dot called Sa Pa, but no indication on the map that this was anything other than another two-chicken town. The map elevation showed 1,800 meters, which explained why I could see my breath and not feel my nose. I said, “It’s another thirty kilometers or so from Sa Pa to Lao Cai. We’ll stop in Sa Pa.”

I accelerated up the sharply rising road. The fog was thick now, but I left my headlight off and stayed in the middle of the dirt road.

Within fifteen minutes, we could see the glow of lights, and a few minutes later, we were in Sa Pa.

It was a pleasant little place, and in the dark, I could imagine I was in a French alpine village.

We drove around awhile, and the town was dead in the winter. There were lots of small hotels and guest houses in Sa Pa, and every one of them would report our check-in to the Immigration Police.

I saw few people on the streets, and most of them were Montagnards. I spotted a Viet on a motor scooter ahead of me, and I said to Susan, “Ask that guy what’s the best hotel in town.” I accelerated and came up beside him. Susan spoke to him, and he gave her directions. She said to me, “Make a U-turn.”

I made a U-turn on the quiet street, and Susan directed me to a road that climbed above the town.

At the very end of the road, like a mirage, was a huge, modern hotel called the Victoria Sa Pa.

We gave the bike to a doorman, took our backpacks, and entered the big, luxurious lobby.

She said to me, “Nothing but the best for my hero. Use your American Express. I think I’m not being reimbursed anymore.”

“Let’s have a drink first.”

There was a lounge off the lobby, and I took Susan’s arm and led her
into this modern lounge with a panoramic view of the misty mountains. We put our backpacks down and sat at a cocktail table. A waitress took our orders for two beers. I looked around and saw about a dozen Westerners in the big place, so we didn’t stand out, which was why I wanted the best place in town.

Susan said to me, “I have the feeling we’re not checking in here.”

“No, we’re not.” I added, “By now, Colonel Mang may know we stayed at the Dien Bien Phu Motel, so he knows we’re in northwest Vietnam. He’d like to know exactly where, but I’m not sure what he’d do with that information. In any case, I don’t want him or the local goons joining us for cocktails. So we’ll push on.”

She replied, “I agree we shouldn’t check into a hotel or guest house, but maybe we should find a place to sleep in town, like a church, or that park we saw. Lao Cai is about two hours of dangerous driving through the mountain fog. If a military jeep came up behind us, we wouldn’t hear him over the motorcycle, and we might not be able to outrun him. If he came toward us on a narrow mountain road, we’d have to turn around, and we might not be able to outrun him.” She looked at me and said, “And you threw away my gun.”

“I thought you had two more.”

She smiled.

I said, “Well, I have an infantryman’s solution to escape and evasion at night. We walk.”

She didn’t reply.

The beers came, and Susan raised her glass to me. “To the worst three days I’ve ever spent in Vietnam, with the best man I’ve ever spent them with.”

We touched glasses. I said, “You wanted a little adventure.”

“I also wanted a hot shower and a soft bed tonight. Not to mention a good dinner.”

“You wouldn’t get any of that in jail.” I looked at her and said, “We’ve come too far to make a mistake now.”

“I know. You’re the expert on getting out of here with only hours left before the flight leaves.”

“Did it twice.”

Susan called the cocktail waitress over and in French made her understand we wanted something to eat.

Susan smiled at me and said, “Maybe we’ll come back here in the summer.”

“Send me a postcard.”

She sipped her beer thoughtfully, then said, “They’ll have a fax machine here.” She looked around at the dozen or so people in the lounge. “We can ask one of these Westerners to send a fax for us. Just to say we’ve made it this far.”

I replied, “If we don’t make it all the way to Hanoi with a mission report, they won’t care how far we got.”

“Well . . . we should at least tell them that we met TVV, and he’s given us some souvenirs.”

“Susan, the less they know in Saigon, Washington, and the American embassy in Hanoi, the better. I don’t owe them anything after the bullshit they—and you—have been feeding me for two weeks.”

The waitress brought a bowl of peanuts and two plates of satay on skewers, covered with what smelled like peanut butter sauce.

“What is this meat?” I asked.

“Don’t obsess on the meat. You have a long walk ahead of you.” Susan stood. “I saw some tourist brochures in the lobby. I’ll be right back.”