It was then that he noticed that his arms were bare. "What the hell is this?" he asked aloud.
He was wearing a T-shirt. It was black, like his pants. He looked around for his Marine uniform. There was nothing in sight. He had no pack, no canteen, no boots. He was dressed for shooting pool back in Newark, not for Vietnam.
Stiffly, apprehensively, he stumbled toward the front half of the bus. He clambered in through its gaping rear, which was tilted like a ramp. He found a Russian Kalashnikov rifle on the buckled floor. He checked the bolt. It worked. There were no bodies in the seats. Remo wondered where the driver was. His head throbbed. His ears felt like they had on the day he first landed in Saigon. It had been his first airplane flight, and during the descent, his eardrums had built up pressure until they ached. He hated the feeling and it hadn't gone away until he'd stepped off the plane with the rest of his company and the first trucks containing the aluminum coffins of dead American servicemen arrived to be loaded for the return flight. The shock had cleared his ears.
Remo felt like that now. He worked his jaw to clear his ears, but they remained stuffy, like blocked nasal passages.
Someone groaned. Remo ran to the other half of the bus. He pointed his rifle into the dark, tangled interior. Little steely glints like feral eyes winked back at him. "Who's there?" he challenged. Another groan.
With his rifle barrel Remo knocked aside still-smoking seat covers. He stepped in gingerly, not trusting his light shoes. Again he felt the lack of boots as a dull fear in his gut. A man without boots in the jungle might as well shoot himself in the head and save himself a lot of unnecessary trouble.
Remo found a young girl, her face in shadow. She wore the black pajama uniform of the Vietnamese farmer-or the Vietcong. Probably a prisoner being transported, he decided.
Remo nudged her with the stock of his rifle. Her eyes snapped open and Remo was shocked by their color. They were green.
Ever since she was a child, Thao Ha Lan had had one dream. That the Americans would come back to Vietnam and crush the Hanoi regime. At night she dreamed that it would begin with the clatter of their helicopter gunships coming in low over the South China Sea. They would take Ho Chi Minh City first. And one special helicopter would come for her. Her father would be the pilot. Lan didn't know if her father had flown helicopters during the war. She only knew that her father was an American soldier. And American soldiers could do anything.
It was a dream her mother had impressed upon her. Her mother had loved an American serviceman. The American had died, her mother said. Lan did not believe her. She knew he lived in America, where there was no war, no fighting, no Communists. She hoped to go there one day. The dream survived the day her mother was taken away to a reeducation camp and even after she herself was taken off the Ho Chi Minh City streets.
The dream had flared anew at the arrival of the lone American with the dead, flat eyes that held no fear. The man had American features. Like her own. The only American features Lan had ever seen belonged to the other bui doi who shared her work barracks.
It had been a crushing disappointment for Lan when the American had ordered them off the bus in the middle of the Cambodian jungle. She could not believe it. So when the American had finished putting gasoline in the bus, she slipped back aboard and hid in the darkened interior where she wouldn't be seen.
Lan was determined to go with the fearless American wherever he went.
Lan woke suddenly. She remembered the red flash. She felt herself tangled among broken bus seats. Then she saw the American. He was pointing a rifle at her face. He looked angry.
"Don't shoot. It Lan. Lan."
"Don't move," the American said. His voice was cold. Lan knew he was angry. She had expected that.
"I no move," Lan said. She folded her hands together to show they were empty. "I no move. Okay?"
"Where is this place?"
"Kampuchea. "
"Never heard of it. You VC?"
"No. Not VC. VC all gone."
"Bull. Get up. Slow."
Still holding her hands together, Lan struggled into a kneeling position and bowed once to the American. She hoped Americans understood bowing.
"Skip that crap," the American told her. "On your feet. "
Lan pushed herself to her feet. She took care to stand with her head bowed. She hoped the American would not send her away alone.
"Now, answer my questions, bien?" he said curtly. "Who was on that bus?"
Lan hesitated. She did not understand. The American glared at her. "Lan on bus," she said at last. "Who else?"
"You. No one else."
"Who was driving? And don't tell me it was you."
"You drive. You drive to find American friend. Prisoner. "
The American frowned. "This better not be a trick," he said. "Come on."
He stepped back to let her slide out of the ruined bus, and Lan stepped carefully to the ground. The American kept his weapon trained on her. He looked nervous and unsteady, not confident as he had before.
The American marched her around the shattered bus halves. In the middle of the road they found a sloping depression edged with splashed dirt.
"An antipersonnel mine," the American said, kicking at the dirt. His foot unearthed glinting steel balls. "It tore the bus in two. These are what were staring at me. I thought they were eyes."
Lan nodded. "Khmer Rouge mine."
"Khmer Rouge," the American said excitedly. "You mean Cambodians? Are we in Cambodia?"
"You not remember? You drive us here."
"Us? Us who?"
"Vietnamese prisoners. You free us."
The American looked at her confusedly. He shook his head, his dark eyes distracted.
"Where's the nearest American base camp? Tell me."
"Americans all gone. Long gone. None left."
"Then the next nearest camp. I've got to get back to my unit."
"Lan not understand. Not know where your American friends are. You search."
"I'll settled for an ARVN unit, then."
Lan grew frightened. This man was asking about the long-defeated Army of the Republic of Vietnam. Was he crazy?
"ARVN? No more ARVN. No more ARVN."
"What do you mean-no more ARVN?"
"ARVN surrender."
"Bull. "
"Americans gone home. ARVN gone. No more South. No more North. War over."
"Over?" The American's voice growled. "Who won?"
"Communists. You not remember?"
"My ass. You're VC."
"You no understand. VC no more. ARVN crushed. Americans gone. War over. How I make you understand?"
"You can't, so forget it."
As Lan watched, the American started walking in circles. He put one hand to his head, never letting his eyes stray from her. Lan wondered if he was sick. She had never met any Americans before today. Did they always act so crazy when they were displeased?
"My head is killing me," the American moaned. Then he dropped his rifle in the dirt and fell on it. He did not move after that.
Chapter 13
Captain Dai Chim Sao returned to Hanoi via Moscow. He had slipped across the Mexican border and obtained an Aeroflot flight to the Soviet capital. It was a longer journey than going through Europe, but traveling by Western carrier would have placed him at the risk of arrest and extradition. Only Aeroflot was safe.
In Hanoi he was debriefed by Vietnam's defense minister.
"My mission was successful," Dai concluded after he'd finished his explanation. He stood at attention. The defense minister sat stolidly in his straight-backed chair. His office was decorated with standard Sovietbloc orthodoxy. No shred of color or humor intruded upon its dark-wooded solidity. Dai waited for the at-ease order. It never came.
"Success is relative," the defense minister told him bluntly, and Captain Dai felt his heart sink. What had he done wrong? He cleared his throat prior to asking, but quickly realized that asking would be the same as accepting failure. Captain Dai was not ready to accept any such thing.