We mounted up and drove out of the parking field. Susan continued north on the back road, which was now barely more than a dirt trail. She called out, “This is usually okay as a dirt bike, but you’ve got to hold on.”
We were bumping wildly, and the bike skidded a few times, but she was a very good driver, and I started to feel more confident that we weren’t going to wind up alongside the road kill.
She said, “This road goes to Route 13, which goes through the Michelin rubber plantation. Thirteen will take us back to Saigon, and it’s a very lightly traveled road, so we’ll make good time.”
We traveled north over the worst road in the hemisphere, and I thought my kidneys were going to pop out of my ears.
Finally, we reached a two-lane paved highway, and Susan cut to the right. She said, “This is the rubber plantation. Those are rubber trees.”
The road seemed nearly deserted, and she opened the throttle. We were clipping along at about sixty miles an hour, but it was a good road. The sun, however, was sinking fast, and the shadows of the rubber trees were long and dark.
I remembered that Karl said he’d seen action here with the Eleventh Armored Cavalry, and I knew from other veterans of that unit that there had been a number of running battles within the Michelin plantation, and along Highway 13.
I pictured Karl here, manning a machine gun atop an armored vehicle, puffing away on a cigarette, scanning the spooky forest with field glasses, and probably pretending he was Field Marshal Guderian leading a panzer army into Russia. I’d have to tell him I was here — if we ever spoke again.
Within twenty minutes, we were out of the spooky rubber forest and into an area of scrub brush. It was dark now, and the only traffic on the road was some scooters and small cars. As we got closer to Saigon, the traffic became heavier, and Susan had to keep slowing down.
Wartime Saigon at night was like a sea of light in a vast ocean of darkness. Within the city, life went on; on the outskirts of the city, barbed wire and roadblocks sprang up and soldiers became alert. Nothing outside the city moved after dark, and if it did move, you killed it. And beyond the barbed wire were the military bases, smaller islands unto themselves, like Bien Hoa and Tan Son Nhat, where soldiers and airmen drank beer and gambled, watched movies from home, wrote letters, cleaned their equipment, cursed the war, stood guard duty, and slept fitfully. And if you were unlucky enough to be assigned to a night patrol, you sometimes met the men and women of the Cu Chi tunnels.
We were approaching the city from the north now, and I saw the lights of Tan Son Nhat Airport. Farther to the east would be my old base at Bien Hoa, which also had runways, but only for military aviation. I asked Susan, “Do you know what happened to the American military base at Bien Hoa?”
“I think it’s a Viet military airfield. Jet fighters. I didn’t know it had been an American base until you told me.”
“I guess I can’t visit my old barracks.”
“Not unless you want to get shot.”
“Not this trip.”
We crossed a muddy canal and got on Khanh Hoi Island from the same bridge we’d left from. The streets of Khanh Hoi were dark, but Susan knew the way. We passed a yellow police jeep, and the guy in the passenger seat looked at us and looked at the motorcycle. He began to follow, and I said to Susan, “We have company.”
“I know.” She shut off her lights and drove into a narrow alley where the cop car couldn’t follow. She seemed to know the alleys and passageways, and within a few minutes, we were pulling up to the parking lot beneath the Nguyen apartment.
We transferred everything from the Ural saddlebags to the Minsk saddlebags, and switched mounts like a pony express rider. Within a few minutes we were on our way with the small Minsk, which seemed even more uncomfortable than I remembered it.
Susan looked at her watch as she headed toward the center of the city. She said, “Good timing. It’s twenty to eight, and we should be in my office by eight.”
“Where’s your office?”
“On Dien Bien Phu Street. Near the Jade Emperor Pagoda.”
“Is that a restaurant?”
“No, it’s the Jade Emperor Pagoda.”
“Sounds like a restaurant on M Street in Georgetown.”
“I can’t believe I spent a whole day with you.”
“Neither can I.”
“Just kidding. You’re fun. Did you have fun today?”
I replied, “I did. I don’t know which I liked the best — meeting Bill, the heat, your driving, wartime memories of Saigon, the road from hell to the Cu Chi tunnels, or giving that cop back there the slip.”
“Didn’t I buy you a beer, and a pair of sunglasses, and pay for all the tickets?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
We crossed the muddy stream into central Saigon and followed the embankment road along the Saigon River. The city was incredibly crowded for a Sunday night, and I remarked on this.
Susan said, “It’s called Sunday Night Saigon Fever. Sunday night is a bigger night than Saturday for some reason. It’s totally crazy. We’ll go out after dinner and have a few drinks, maybe some dancing, and a karaoke place, if you’re game.”
“I’m really exhausted.”
“You’ll get your second wind.”
We headed up a narrow street that crossed a few heavily traveled boulevards. As we waited at a stoplight, I asked Susan, “Do you ever ride alone? I mean out in the country.”
“Sometimes. Bill is not a big motorcycle buff. Sometimes I go with a girlfriend. Viet or American. Why?”
“Is it safe for a woman alone?”
“Sure. The thing about most Buddhist countries is that women aren’t hassled. It’s a cultural thing more than religious, I think. Of course if you’re young and pretty, like me, and you’re in a bar, a Viet guy might try to pick you up, but they don’t have great lines.”
“Give me an example.”
She laughed. “Well, first they tell you how beautiful you are and how they’ve noticed you on the street many times.”
“What’s wrong with that? I use that line a lot.”
“Did it ever work?”
“No.”
She laughed again, and accelerated through the intersection. A few minutes later, we turned right onto Dien Bien Phu Street.
Within a minute, we passed a very impressive pagoda, which would make a great restaurant some day, then Susan pulled onto the sidewalk in front of a modern glass and steel building that was cantilevered over the sidewalk. We got off the Minsk, and she walked it to the front door. A guard opened the door, smiled and said something in Vietnamese.
Susan opened the saddlebag and retrieved her camera. She left the motor scooter in the marble lobby of the office building, and I followed her to the elevators.
The elevator doors opened, and we got on. Susan used a key to activate the seventh floor button. She said, “Don’t let Washington talk you into something dangerous.”
It was a little late for that advice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The elevator doors opened onto a large reception area decorated with black lacquered furniture, rice paper prints, and a pink marble floor. The brass letters over the reception desk read American-Asian Investment Corporation, Limited.
Susan said, “Welcome to AAIC, Mr. Brenner. Would you like to buy half of a fish canning factory?”
“I’ll settle for a whole Scotch and soda.”
Beneath the corporate sign hung a banner in gold metallic letters that read Chuc Mung Nam Moi, and beneath that, in English, Happy New Year.
A small kumquat tree sat on the floor, and a few twigs of blossoms were stuck in what looked like an umbrella stand. Most of the petals had fallen to the floor.