We’d bombed the trail and had hit some of those border enclaves as well. During my combat tour U.S. cavalry units went into Cambodia near the Parrot’s Beak and the Fishhook to shoot up some Cong staging areas, after which the amount of grief coming out of those sectors declined appreciably.
General Lon Nol, who’d taken power in a 1970 coup, headed the government and was sympathetic to the US. They ‘d recently been battling some Communist guerilla outfit, the Khmer Rouge, and government reports expressed confidence that they’d prevail. American news stories commented on troop positions and locations of skirmishes but gave no clear impression of the intensity of the fighting. If the situation here in Nam offered any guide, it made no difference what the papers said about Cambodia anyway, as the correspondents were making up their stories over drinks in hotel bars.
I wondered if this DRAGONFLY character had been working with the Lon Nol government forces and had turned up missing out in the jungle somewhere. The CIA had been active that way up in Laos, so it seemed like a reasonable possibility, but if so, what kind of mission had Sonarr involved me in? I had pretty solid jungle experience, but how could I locate somebody from a hotel room in Phnom Penh?
The sun was down and daylight half faded when I left the Embassy to make the short walk to the Brinks Hotel. The streets and the sidewalks teemed, the end of day tide of pedestrians and cycles. I couldn’t shake this assignment Sonarr had sprung on me off my mind—it didn’t compute, no matter how I figured it. He’d told me “no problem,” but still… midway along the second block from the Embassy, sudden running steps behind me derailed my thoughts. I heard the thunk of a blow onto flesh and bone, a groan and the rustling plop of a body striking the ground. I turned to find an American man, standard bureaucratic issue, behind me.
He was dressed in lightweight slacks and shortsleeved business shirt with collar open. He looked familiar; maybe I’d seen him around the Embassy building—he’d certainly blend right in. At his feet lay the collapsed body of a young Vietnamese man. “Tried to grab my briefcase and run off with it,” he spat scornfully toward the heap before him. “We can’t let these gooks get away with shit like that. Look, the sonofabitch was even carrying a knife.” From where I stood, it didn’t look as if that particular gook would get away with any kind of shit, ever again—he’d been quite expertly killed. I started to say something to the American, who after all may have been a co-worker, but he remarked, “You gotta watch yourself in this town—some real desperados roaming around loose,” and seamlessly melted into the throng heading back up the street in the other direction. Who was he that he could just waste a guy in broad daylight, leave him on the sidewalk and slip away like that? Funny. Hadn’t I noticed him pass by me? And if he were heading in the other direction, he’d have had to. That Cambodian mission must have been distracting me more than I’d thought. It disturbed me—I am not by nature a careless person. Look alive, Jake, I told myself. Be quick or be dead. Remember how it was in the jungle. Maybe Saigon isn’t so different. Pedestrians streamed by without breaking stride, nobody risking getting caught up in something by pausing to gawk. I saw nothing useful I could do, so rejoined the flow myself. No doubt the Vietnamese had some routine for handling such a situation, of which this was certainly far from the first instance.
Nine thirty found me in my place, working out with some equipment I’d brought along to help keep in shape. Back in those days I ran a 5.2 second 50, benchpressed 275 pounds, and swam 50 yards underwater. No point giving up your muscle tone if you can avoid it. In my line of work, you never can tell when it might come in handy. Also, physical activity helped take my mind away
General Lon Nol, who’d taken power in a 1970 coup, headed the government and was sympathetic to the US. They ‘d recently been battling some Communist guerilla outfit, the Khmer Rouge, and government reports expressed confidence that they’d prevail. American news stories commented on troop positions and locations of skirmishes but gave no clear impression of the intensity of the fighting. If the situation here in Nam offered any guide, it made no difference what the papers said about Cambodia anyway, as the correspondents were making up their stories over drinks in hotel bars.
I wondered if this DRAGONFLY character had been working with the Lon Nol government forces and had turned up missing out in the jungle somewhere. The CIA had been active that way up in Laos, so it seemed like a reasonable possibility, but if so, what kind of mission had Sonarr involved me in? I had pretty solid jungle experience, but how could I locate somebody from a hotel room in Phnom Penh?
The sun was down and daylight half faded when I left the Embassy to make the short walk to the Brinks Hotel. The streets and the sidewalks teemed, the end of day tide of pedestrians and cycles. I couldn’t shake this assignment Sonarr had sprung on me off my mind—it didn’t compute, no matter how I figured it. He’d told me “no problem,” but still… midway along the second block from the Embassy, sudden running steps behind me derailed my thoughts. I heard the thunk of a blow onto flesh and bone, a groan and the rustling plop of a body striking the ground. I turned to find an American man, standard bureaucratic issue, behind me.
He was dressed in lightweight slacks and shortsleeved business shirt with collar open. He looked familiar; maybe I’d seen him around the Embassy building—he’d certainly blend right in. At his feet lay the collapsed body of a young Vietnamese man. “Tried to grab my briefcase and run off with it,” he spat scornfully toward the heap before him. “We can’t let these gooks get away with shit like that. Look, the sonofabitch was even carrying a knife.” From where I stood, it didn’t look as if that particular gook would get away with any kind of shit, ever again—he’d been quite expertly killed. I started to say something to the American, who after all may have been a co-worker, but he remarked, “You gotta watch yourself in this town—some real desperados roaming around loose,” and seamlessly melted into the throng heading back up the street in the other direction. Who was he that he could just waste a guy in broad daylight, leave him on the sidewalk and slip away like that? Funny. Hadn’t I noticed him pass by me? And if he were heading in the other direction, he’d have had to. That Cambodian mission must have been distracting me more than I’d thought. It disturbed me—I am not by nature a careless person. Look alive, Jake, I told myself. Be quick or be dead. Remember how it was in the jungle. Maybe Saigon isn’t so different. Pedestrians streamed by without breaking stride, nobody risking getting caught up in something by pausing to gawk. I saw nothing useful I could do, so rejoined the flow myself. No doubt the Vietnamese had some routine for handling such a situation, of which this was certainly far from the first instance.
Nine thirty found me in my place, working out with some equipment I’d brought along to help keep in shape. Back in those days I ran a 5.2 second 50, benchpressed 275 pounds, and swam 50 yards underwater. No point giving up your muscle tone if you can avoid it. In my line of work, you never can tell when it might come in handy. Also, physical activity helped take my mind away
Similar Books
