“It’s about time we got a break,” Freeman told his HQ staff. He was referring to an intelligence report from one of General Vinh’s reconnaissance patrols that had revealed the reason so many Chinese had so suddenly appeared at the beginning of the war around Dong Dang and Lang Son. Vinh’s patrols, most of which were badly mauled, returning with only half their strength, were reporting that the exits of an elaborate tunnel complex had been found just south of Dong Dang and that Chinese regulars apparently moving at night through the tunnels had holed up in the caves around Lang Son, ready for the massive attack on the Vietnamese Army. And the same had apparently happened eastward near Loc Binh.
“ ‘Course, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to Vinh’s boys,” Freeman pointed out. “They’re probably the best damn tunnelers in the world.” He reminded his staff of the vast tunnel complexes, not only the maze of over a hundred miles at Chu Chi in old Saigon, but those that the NVA had dug in the north, tunnels that not even the bombs of the B-52s could penetrate or uproot, and the tunnels that honeycombed the earth beneath Beijing since the time when China had feared nuclear attack from the Soviet Union.
“We’ve been hit,” Freeman told Vinh, “with the old ‘one slow, four quick’ strategy.”
Vinh agreed, leaving it to the interpreter to explain the technique to Freeman’s HQ staff. “The method is simple, very slow at first and extremely effective. One slow means take time to plan logistical needs to the smallest detail, the amount of rice for each soldier, the number of rounds, amount of bandages, morphine, dried fish — everything needed for an offensive from battalion to divisional level. And practice, practice, practice for the attack — all the tunnels ending up in areas directly beneath the target. Once all is set, then the Chinese carry out the four quicks: mobility, attack, tactics, and withdrawal. It is a massive hit and run.”
“Only this time,” Freeman interjected, “there was no ‘run.’ They caught the Viet—” He stopped. “They caught the Vietnamese and U.S. with our pants down while we were trying to defend the Lang Son road. Coming up all around us. For all we know, gentlemen, our blue on blue with General Vinh’s force might have begun with legitimate fire from PLA gophers. They pop up here and there in the jungle long enough to draw our fire, confuse us with the possibility of an ambush, then disappear down their warrens while we’re still firing at anything that moves.”
Freeman stepped back to the Play-Doh mock-up of the area between Dong Dang and Loc Binh in the north down to the airfield at Kep. “One thing’s for certain, gentlemen. We’re going to have to retake what we’ve lost, but first we have to stop the advance, and then we’re going to have to engage the sons of bitches in the tunnels as we—” He almost said, “As we did in ‘Nam,” but with Vinh present, he thought it was more diplomatic not to say it. Major Cline couldn’t help a wry smile. Perhaps they’d make a diplomat of Freeman after all.
General Vinh said something, but the interpreter balked. Vinh, a chain-smoker, gestured to the interpreter to tell Freeman exactly what he’d said. The interpreter faced Freeman. “General Vinh said you are correct — that sooner or later you will have to rid the tunnels of the PLA, the same as you tried to do with the Viet Cong sons of bitches.”
Freeman looked at Vinh, the latter’s face in a cloud of smoke, nodded and, smiling broadly, extended his hand to Vinh. As they shook hands in the camaraderie of soldiers, both men’s HQ staffs clapped appreciatively. It was a rare moment in which old animosities were forgotten and only the task at hand mattered: to defeat the enemy.
Freeman circled the low country east of Ban Re and southwest of Loc Binh. “I propose sending in elements of First Division Air Cavalry along these ridges above the valley — a battalion westward to sever the Ban Re-Lang Son railroad and get enough artillery in there—” He bracketed the valley area between Loc Binh and Ban Re. “—to pour down fire into the valley. Give Wang and Wei something to think about in the north besides their main force advance. Meanwhile, General, your divisions can go in with my Second Division east of Kep. That way we’ll hit ‘em back and front.”
Vinh looked unconvinced and ventured a few words in English on the subject. “You like high ground, Americans?”
“We do,” Freeman responded.
“I remember.”
“So do I, General.”
Vinh now told Freeman through his interpreter that he thought the plan was sound and simple and he endorsed it, but he wondered if his battalions might be landed along with the Americans to deal with the tunnels. Otherwise what the Americans would win by day would be lost by night, the PLA using the tried-and-true method of Mao — of not attacking until one had overwhelming strength and retreating if one didn’t, a tactic that might tie down the Americans for weeks, particularly if the PLA, as the general was sure they would, retreated en masse to the labyrinth of tunnels. Why not leave the artillery and the lower, wetter regions of the valleys to the Americans and leave the infantry fighting at night to the Vietnamese?
Freeman was mulling it over. Vinh said something else to the interpreter, the latter telling Freeman with a tone of apology, “General Vinh intends no insult to the American forces who have so generously come to help stop the Chinese aggression, but in the unfortunate war between the Republic of Vietnam and the United States, many of the Viet Cong spent their lives in the tunnels, where there were first aid stations, ammunition dumps, kitchens, dormitories, wells — that these men lived in and operated from the tunnels.”
“Cu Chi,” said Freeman, and Vinh and his staff immediately showed pleasure in the recognition of Freeman’s knowledge of the Vietnam War, Major Cline explaining to the much younger Captain Boyd that the huge American base at Cu Chi had unknowingly been built on an extensive Viet Cong tunnel complex from which VC would emerge at night, kill, steal, and generally create chaos, then disappear back down the tunnels, leaving the Americans demoralized and their commanders puzzled as to how in hell the VC were getting through the base’s extensive razor wire and machine-gun-defended perimeter.
“Of course,” Freeman said, “don’t forget that our boys went down after — them.” He had almost said “after you.”
Vinh acknowledged the bravery of the U.S. “tunnel rats” but pointed out that the unfortunate war was now long ago, and he wondered whether the skill of tunnel clearance was still with the Americans. The Vietnamese, on the other hand, had been using the tunnel complexes almost continuously since that war against China’s aggressive forays into the Republic of Vietnam. Again Vinh explained that General Freeman must not take this as an insult, for the American tunnel rats had shown great bravery and were fearless despite the booby traps.
Freeman thanked the general for his suggestions, saying that he, Freeman, would welcome all the help he could get from Vinh’s tunnel clearers but that he thought it important that wherever possible, Americans and Vietnamese should work together with a view to better future relations between the two countries.
This met with general approval by the Vietnamese staff, who were eager to get their hands on some American equipment. It was especially welcomed by Vinh’s political officer, who was keen to keep improving Vietnam-American relations. After the details of the forthcoming operation, code-named “Tiger,” had been discussed from divisional, brigade, regimental, battalion, and company level, and things were wrapping up for the day, Major Cline complimented Freeman on his diplomacy.
“Diplomacy, hell!” Freeman said as he, Cline, and Boyd walked out toward the press pool tent. “I want Americans with them so I damn well know what’s going on. Their radio communications compared to ours are primitive, and I don’t want our boys in our arty batteries on those ridges left on their lonesome because Vinh’s boys are fighting a hit-and-run Maoist war.”
Captain Boyd looked worried about the upcoming press conference. Since Freeman’s demotion to field responsibility, General Jorgensen, recently arrived, was opening the press pool to as many as the tent would comfortably hold. And he was letting reporters fan out to battle zones for live reports. Hadn’t Jorgensen learned anything from Schwarzkopf’s tight field control of the press in the Iraqi War? Boyd complained to Cline that the press shouldn’t have been allowed as far north as Phu Lang Thuong. “Should have kept them in Hanoi,” he opined.
“Well, they’re here, Captain,” Freeman interjected, “and you and I are going to have to deal with ‘em.”
Boyd now looked twice as worried. “Sir, what if I’m asked about the tunnel rat business?”
“What about it?”
“Well, sir, I haven’t had much background in that area.”
“None of us did, son. All you had was a knife, handgun, and a flashlight. And down you went.”
Boyd nodded but seemed unconvinced. “Were they fearless?” he asked. “As General Vinh said?”
“Some. But very few. At first a lot of men ordered down refused to go. Those who did, often came up and told the squad leader there was nothing down there. So we had to create ‘tunnel rat’ units. Guys who volunteered.”
“You ever go down, General?” Boyd asked.
“Yes, I did. Not in ‘Nam but in another op.”
“Scary, sir?”
“Son,” Freeman said as he approached what he called the “bullshit” tent, “never been so friggin’ scared in all my life. Damn near shit myself, but I got the bastard-right in the belly!”
“What kind of booby traps were there?” Cline gave Boyd a back-off look, but the young press aide was too interested in hearing Freeman’s answer.
“Captain, do you want to have nightmares?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t ask me about booby traps and don’t go asking any of the troops. Most of them haven’t ever seen a tunnel, and I don’t want to spook their morale unnecessarily.”
In the press conference, the first such joint conference ever shared by a Vietnamese and U.S. general before so many reporters, Marte Price’s was the first question taken by Freeman. “General, there’ve been rumors going around about tunnel complexes occupied by the PLA in the border areas. Will our men be involved in fighting them?”
“We—”
“USVUN,” Boyd whispered.
“Ah, I don’t know where you could’ve gotten those reports from, Ms. Price, but it will be the task of the USVUN forces to engage the enemy until he withdraws his forces beyond the Vietnam-Chinese border. That’s all we’re here for.”
ABC had his hand up. “General Freeman, how do you feel being relegated to field command from overall command of USVUN forces?”
“Suits me fine. General Jorgensen is a fine soldier. This is like a football game. Coach can change anyone to any position he likes.”
Cline winced inwardly but outwardly looked unperturbed. The general, he knew, would be quoted by someone somewhere as comparing the war to a game.
A CBS reporter was identified. “General Vinh, this is a follow-up from a question asked earlier. Will U.S. forces be fighting in the tunnel complexes?” There was an audible murmur of surprise among the assembled press corps, the question being all but a direct accusation that Freeman was holding back. General Vinh’s interpreter took the question, waited for his boss’s brief reply, and announced, “We know nothing of a tunnel complex.”
“But what if there were tunnels?” Marte Price interjected.
“Then we’d fill them in,” Freeman said, smiling.
This got a laugh until Marte said, “You mean you’d just suffocate men without giving them a chance?”
“No,” Freeman said good-naturedly. “We wouldn’t do that.” He turned from the podium as another question about tunnels was addressed to Vinh. Still smiling, Freeman told Boyd quietly, “I want to see her in private, off-the-record.” His troops called it the George C. Scott look. Cold fury under a camouflage net.
Vinh spoke to the interpreter again, and the interpreter told Pierre LaSalle of French television that he knew nothing about tunnels.
Freeman announced the news conference was over. There was an uproar from the press.
Freeman was in a rage. “Boyd, you get Ms. Price here right now! This instant! You hear me?”
“Yes, sir!”
When Marte Price entered the general’s tent, he knew Boyd must have told her he was furious, and he made no attempt to hide it. “Against my better judgment,” he stormed, “I gave you clearance to accompany the EMREF, and the first thing you do is try to undermine my credibility — and General Vinh’s — let alone that of the entire USVUN force!”
“Off-the-record, General,” Boyd warned, in the bravest advice he had yet given the general.
“What — yes, off-the-record, Ms. Price. Can I tell you — can I trust you — with something off-the-record?”
“Yes, Gen—” She couldn’t finish, her throat and tongue dry as parchment.
“All right,” he thundered. “I know what you and those other—reporters—are after. You want to do to me what you did to our field commanders in ‘Nam. You want grisly descriptions of tunnel warfare so you can get on prime time and worry the hell out of every parent and family of our men over here. You want to serve up blood and guts for dinner and upset our boys’ folks so bad that they’ll be demanding we be sent home.”
Marte Price tried to speak, but he rolled over her like a monsoon.
“What you don’t realize, young lady, is that these boys are here because the most populous country in the world, and the only other world power militarily, is eating away at its neighbors like a goddamned jackal, and if they’re not stopped, they’ll be encouraged to war war instead of jaw jaw over every goddamn territorial claim they make. Hell, don’t you realize the Chinese have had wars with everybody anywhere near their fence — India, Pakistan, the Russians, Siberia, Laos, Vietnam. Now they’re laying claim to every goddamn island and reef— over five hundred of them — in the South China Sea. And what do you want to do? You want to do a goddamn liberal dance about our boys going down some goddamn tunnel because it makes good copy for your rag. Now piss off!”
An hour later General Freeman called on Marte Price. He couldn’t tell whether she’d been crying or whether she was being deliberately cold.
“I apologize for losing my temper. I apologize for telling you to — to ‘piss off.’ That was ungentlemanly of me and I regret it.”
“And the rest, General?”
“I don’t withdraw a word of it. It’s true. I wouldn’t trust you people as far as I could kick you.”
The road to Lat village, or rather the nine hamlets that constituted the population of just over seven thousand, was in bad repair following heavy rains, and Raymond Baker was glad that Ha Ha had got him the jeep for the seven-and-a-half-mile journey. He was stopped twice by police who demanded to see the required permits and who, in the second instance, argued that the date stamp on the Dalat permit was for tomorrow and that therefore he should not be on the road and should be fined one million dong, about ninety dollars U.S.
Exasperation barely under control, Baker told them about the clerk at the hotel and that perhaps what he should do is have the U.S. legation in Saigon ring the officials of General Vinh in Hanoi. That did it. Albeit grudgingly, he was allowed to proceed, and once in the first hamlet, in the early afternoon, he let it be known that he was looking for information about U.S. MIAs and POWs from ‘Nam, appealing to their patriotism, telling the village headman that “our soldiers and your soldiers are fighting side by side to repel the imperialistic ambitions of the Chinese,” and that therefore the Vietnamese people and all those who had been exploited by the Chinese no-gooders had a patriotic duty to help him find any missing MIAs or POWs from ‘Nam. Then they could rejoin their comrades in the fight against the Chinese invaders. Baker had particularly balked when it came to using terms such as “imperialist,” “no-gooders,” and “patriotic duty,” but then again, why not use anything he could? He added that there would also be a substantial reward for helpful information leading to any POW or MIA.
A lot of villagers on their way back from market stared at him as they had stared for thousands of years at barbarians who smelled like dog and often, to the Asians’ disgust, grew facial hair. But beyond that, no one took much notice, other than a crowd of boys who, despite the village’s relative prosperity, soon clung about him, their hands out for money or whatever he might have had to give. The only thing he wanted to give was hope to at least some of those parents back in the States who simply did not know for sure whether their kin were alive or dead. If they were dead, then at least they would know for certain, and the grieving could begin. Police, he noticed, were everywhere in Dalat, and suddenly in the beautifully rich, clean air that had followed the downpour he realized how futile it all was.
Who would dare approach a stranger with such information with policemen sniffing everywhere? Perhaps he could do better by forwarding a request to USVUN HQ in Hanoi, or was it now in Phu Lang Thuong? Baker wished he could give MIAs’ next of kin some idea of how frustrating it was trying to follow a single lead through the tangled web of bureaucracy. It always ended like this, despite the most optimistic beginnings. And who could blame the Vietnamese? What would he do in their position, with officialdom ever ready to swoop for some reason that might rest on nothing more than a petty whim or vindictiveness?
Baker decided he would return to Dalat in the morning if he failed to get anything that would substantiate the old Chinese’s claim, made on his sampan, that there was an MIA in one of the Lat villages. There was no hotel in Lat, but for the twenty dollars he’d given Ha Ha, it had been arranged that he would stay overnight in one of the village thatched-roof houses built high on stilts. Without knowing it, at least at that moment, the American was among people who, if they knew anything, would most likely tell him, for the Lat villagers were made up of old men who, along with other minorities, had helped the Americans in the early seventies.
The evening meal was rice and some kind of meat that they told him was pig — which he doubted — and black beans. They told Baker through a local translator that “you see the hill people, the Montagnards, were correct. They always said the Americans, the green faces”—they meant Green Beret commandos’ face paint—”would not desert them, that they would come back.”
“It’s been a long time,” Baker said by way of apology.
“What is time to us?” the family elder said, smoking his pipe at full blast. “The important thing is they came back.”
One of the younger men shook his head from side to side. “The important thing is, will they stay?”
“No,” another man said matter-of-factly as he held the rice bowl close to his mouth, shoveling with his chopsticks. “The question is, what will Salt and Pepper do?”
“Who cares what they will do?” the old man said angrily. “There is always one rotten banana in the bunch.”
“One!” the younger man said. “In this case there are two.”
“Who are they?” asked Baker. “Montagnards?”
“No, no,” the old man said, waving aside the mention of Montagnards. “They are rebels.”
“From what tribe, then?” Baker inquired.
No one spoke, busily eating and drinking tea, the silence growing heavier by the second. Baker felt his gut tighten as if he’d swallowed a slime ball along with his rice. Slowly he put down his bowl. “Are they Americans?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” the young man said.
“Do you know where they are?”
The old man’s chopsticks waved in a wide gesture toward the peaks of Lang Bian Mountain. “Up there.”
“Why do you call them Salt and Pepper?”
The young man shrugged nonchalantly. “One is white, one is black.”
“You’re sure they’re Americans?”
“Yes,” the old man said, offering more tea.
Baker was simply lost for words. He’d come looking for MIAs and possibly POWs, not renegades. He blew on the hot tea. “Could you contact them?”
The old man shrugged. “I don’t know. Who wants to talk to such vermin?”
Baker conceded the old man’s point. Who would want to find two turncoats? He’d sure as hell get no thanks from Washington. The Chinese would of course relish the propaganda value, despite the fact that whoever this Salt and Pepper were, they must now be near middle age.
“What do they do?” Baker asked. “I mean, so they turned and ran for the other side — the Communists — but they can’t still be running against our men — I mean the U.S. has been long gone.”
“The U.S. has come back,” the younger man said. “The renegades will run with whoever runs against the U.S. — the Chinese or the Khmer Rouge. Sometimes they transport heroin from Laos into Vietnam.”
Baker felt himself sweating despite the cool air of the Lat village. The very mention of the Khmer Rouge from Cambodia — the Khmer Rouge being one of China’s allies in the south — filled him with the kind of fear and loathing some of his Jewish friends experienced upon hearing the names Auschwitz and Buchenwald — run by power-crazed madmen bent on genocide. China would welcome a Khmer Rouge attack against the Vietnamese anywhere on Vietnam’s western border.
“Have you heard any rumors of a Khmer Rouge invasion?” he asked.
“Yes,” the old man said. “Porters are being recruited to move ammunition and supplies along the Cambodian-Vietnamese border and the Laotian-Vietnamese border using some of the old Ho Chi Minh trails.”
No one spoke for several minutes, the only sounds those of the fruit birds from the hill country and the sipping of tea. Finally Baker, still trying to absorb the shock of the information and the implications of it for the war should the USVUN forces be hit on another front, determined that the USVUN field commander, General Freeman, should be advised of the impending likelihood of an attack on his left flank. But Baker’s thoughts immediately returned to the subject of the two American renegades.
“Do you know what rank they hold?” Baker asked. “These two?”
“No.”
“Have you seen them yourselves?”
“I did,” the young man said. “Once. It was a drug line moving toward Saigon.”
“Ho Chi Minh City,” the father corrected.
“Saigon,” the young man repeated, and Baker knew he had an ally. “I saw them for only a moment. They were in NVA uniforms with the big metal rings on their backpacks. Remember? The rings were for attaching camouflage — leaves and such — so that, unlike an American, an NVA soldier could move his head around without any camouflage moving. They had gone past so fast you could not see them clearly. But the white one was much smaller than the black one.”
“Would you recognize them again?”
“No, though I have heard they never separate and the white one is bigger than most Vietnamese. Sometimes they move from place to place by air, but it is said they only transport drugs on foot.”
Baker sat still, both hands cradling the cup, accepting the offer of more tea. Then he sipped the tea, and a crisis had passed because he had resolved what to do. The moment he got back to Dalat — hopefully tomorrow evening — he would send a message to USVUN’s HQ. He’d get shit for not having notified State first or the Pentagon, and not going through normal channels, but he took comfort from the words of Field Marshal Von Rundstedt, who once declared that “normal channels are a trap for officers who lack initiative.”
He thanked his hosts for the meal and went outside to bring in his sleeping bag from the jeep. Despite the fading light, he saw that all the tires on his jeep had been slashed.
“Vandals!” the old man pronounced. “Hooligans — from Dalat, no doubt.”
No matter who it was, Baker told them, it meant he would have to go back to Dalat by bus in the morning. “What time does it leave?”
“Seven.”
From habit, Baker unzipped his sleeping bag to make sure that no bugs or snakes had set up shop, then laid it down on the palm-matted floor, sat down and, by candlelight, wrote down a summary of all he’d heard that night. He folded it when he was finished, took his boots off, and stuffed it down his right sock until he could feel the square of paper under the arch of his foot. Then he quietly begged pardon and asked the young man who had said “Saigon” instead of “Ho Chi Minh City” whether it was possible for him to get a weapon — a pistol, anything.
The young man said this was possible; caches of arms had been buried by many villagers during ‘Nam, but Bac Baker must understand that this would cost money, not for himself, but for those who sold such things illegally. Two hundred American dollars.
“Traveler’s checks?”
“Sure, American Express or Visa, okay, fine.”
The young man soon returned and handed Baker a .45 service revolver and two full clips. Sure, Baker admitted to himself, he was feeling a little paranoid about it all, but it was just in case the tire slashers weren’t simply vandals after all.
There was a scream — the old lady who had come to clean up the kitchen. Someone had placed the chopsticks Baker had used upright in his rice bowl — since time immemorial a Buddhist sign of the dead.
Moving quickly, Baker removed his raincoat, flashlight, and what few other belongings he had in the jeep, and bunched them in his sleeping bag to resemble a body. He turned out his lamp, then sat in a corner of the room where he had a clear view of the open doorway, his ears straining for the least sound, the gun in his right hand resting on the left for instant use. All he had to do was stay awake till morning.
He tried to remember what they had told him on the firing range back in Washington, but all that seemed, and was, a world away. He thought about the chopstick sign. The message didn’t worry him so much as who’d done it. He’d heard nothing. Could someone have come up to the high house without making a sound? If not, it must have been someone in the family. Was the young man’s use of “Saigon” instead of “Ho Chi Minh” merely a ploy to build confidence in him? Was the young man an agent provocateur?
In any case, Baker hoped he wouldn’t have to use the gun— merely having it in Vietnam was highly illegal — and hoped the tire slashing and the sign of the dead were merely two unrelated incidents. Perhaps the chopsticks being put in the bowl like that — sticking up like incense tapers — was a nasty bit of teasing by someone else in the village. All right, Baker told himself, so it was a cruel prank by some spiteful neighbor and had nothing to do with him. The problem was still the stealth it took for someone to come up to the house, creep up the ladder steps, do it, and leave without being noticed by either him or his hosts. Which brought him back to the family again.
He heard a soft thud, like a rubber ball thrown in through the doorway. A grenade? He switched on his flashlight, ready to kick it out the door, and instead saw nothing but a slash of brilliant green slithering toward him. He fired with one hand holding the flashlight, the other pulling the trigger, until he’d emptied the .45, his hands shaking uncontrollably from his phobia of snakes, the snake having disappeared under the mattress. By now of course it was as if the house had been bombed, everyone running and talking excitedly, lanterns coming on and swinging through the hamlet.
Baker tried to talk but couldn’t. Instead he pointed the handgun at the mattress. Finally he could manage a few words. “Con tran!” he said. “Con tran!” It meant python, but he couldn’t remember the word for “snake.” “Con tran—green. You understand con tran?”
Sure, everybody understood. Who didn’t understand? Pythons, said one of the contemptuous teenagers, are known for their great flying ability! “Must have been a bat!” another said.
The young man, his host’s oldest son, who called Ho Chi Minh Saigon, carefully lifted up the riddled sleeping bag and straw mattress with a stick in one hand and a long knife in the other. There was no snake there, only a wild pattern of holes that the bullets had made after passing through the sleeping bag, mattress, and thatched floor.
Soon the rest of the villagers went home. They needed sleep for their work in the fields more than they needed stories of flying pythons from a mentally ill American. And in his city-bred panic, the American had totally lost face.
Yet the next morning, when a policeman arrived wanting to know who had been firing a gun last night, none of the villagers could answer him. They were all asleep, they told him. No one wanted trouble for the hamlet. Oh yes, they said, they’d heard shots coming from the direction of Lang Bian’s peaks, but Vietnamese had lived with the sound of firing for a thousand years. A poacher, perhaps. Everyone knew that since the Vietnam War deer, wild pig, and even tigers had begun to repopulate the area. “Saigon,” as Baker had begun calling his host’s oldest son, was apparently the only one who believed Baker that a snake, despite the height of the house’s stilts, had been in his room.
“What color was it?” he asked Baker.
“Green.”
“Then it wasn’t a python.”
“No — No, but I couldn’t think of your name for snake.”
Saigon asked, “What kind of green?”
“Very bright.”
“A bamboo viper,” Saigon said.
Baker didn’t want to ask the next question, but his need to recover face at least for himself after his outburst of panic forced him to. He asked Saigon if a bamboo viper was your ordinary elephant grass, nonpoisonous creepy crawly or what?
“Had it bitten you, you would have been dead within the hour. You had better keep the gun.”
In one sense, it was the last thing Baker wanted to hear, yet it reassured him to know that someone at least believed his version of what had happened. “Someone is after you,” Saigon said. “You’ve come too close, I think, to Salt and Pepper. I don’t think they are directly involved — otherwise you’d be dead. They are probably off west somewhere in Cambodia or Laos, but I think the slashed tires, the rice bowl and the chopsticks, this is all — how do you Americans say it? — ’low-tech.’ The word has been put out, but now with the Americans helping us in the north, no one wants to do it overtly—” He paused. “—to kill you in the open. They wish it to seem like an accident.”
“Slashed tires are hardly covert” Baker said.
“True. But that might have nothing to do with it. Teenage bad types.”
And why, wondered Baker, are you telling me all this? Is it you? Are you after me? Are you just telling me all this so as not to make me suspicious?
It was as if Saigon could divine what Baker was thinking. “I’m helping you,” Saigon said, “because you are here helping us. I wasn’t born until after the war. For me it is history. I do not dislike Americans.”
“Thanks,” Baker said. “I feel awkward with the gun. What if the Dalat police stop me? They’ll stop you because you’re breathing.”
It was the first time since last night’s meal that Saigon had laughed. “It is true. They would stop their grandmothers. Give it to me. You will be safe on the bus going back to Dalat. I’ll send someone to your hotel with it. I think you should have it.”
“You think I should pursue this matter of Salt and Pepper?”
Saigon shrugged. “This is up to you, but till you’re back safely in Saigon, I think you should keep the gun, I will keep the sleeping bag. If the police saw that, they would be suspicious.”
“Yes.” Baker walked a few paces, then stopped. It was six-fifty, and the first bus out would be in ten minutes. He took out a note he’d written about the existence of Salt and Pepper and of the possibility of a Khmer Rouge flank attack against Vietnam. He gave the note to Saigon, telling him that if anything should happen to him, Saigon should give the note to a senior cadre in Dalat to be passed on to USVUN HQ.
As the crowded bus began its bumpy journey back to Dalat, Baker felt the loneliest he had in years. In going to Dalat, he was running away from Lang Bian Mountain.