"The traitor Phong is dead," Dai repeated thickly. "My internationalist duty has been discharged."
"Had that man not escaped, you would not have had to risk the things you did risk."
"I am prepared to offer my life in service to the glorious revolution."
The defense minister waved his hand dismissively as if the life of one such as Captain Dai was something spent without thinking, like the number of dong required to purchase a cigarette.
"The American press are full of stories," the defense minister said. "The MIA issue, the POW issue. The killing of this Phong was broadcast live. The American government is upset. We were approaching an understanding, but now the political pressure on them to withhold diplomatic recognition until this is settled is enormous. Long months of quiet diplomacy have been jeopardized."
"I did what I had to do."
"In full view of television cameras," said the defense minister bitterly. He shook his iron-gray head.
"It was either there or not at all. Phong was guarded like a diplomat. It was only my resourcefulness that enabled me to gain admittance to the audience."
"You sound like the train engineer who left the brakes off and then congratulated himself for his heroism in stopping the runaway locomotive. Do not congratulate yourself while in this office, Comrade Captain. Your best does not impress me."
Captain Dai said nothing. His mouth ached for a cigarette, but he dared not light up while standing at attention.
The silence in the room lengthened. Finally the defense minister said, "We may have to kill the American prisoners."
"I will gladly undertake that task, Comrade Defense Minister."
"I am sure that you would. Your bloodthirsty kind enabled us to defeat the Americans. But you are now a liability. Why do you think you have been stuck in a distant camp post?"
"I considered it my duty," Dai croaked. His face was gray.
"And if I say it is your duty, you will kill the Americans with your bare hands. But that decision has not been made. For you, there is another duty."
"I stand ready."
"An American has broken away from a tour group near Ho Chi Minh City. No doubt it is the fault of the soft people of the South, who will never be purged of their capitalistic ways."
"We in the North are strong."
"We in the North are in charge," snapped the defense minister. "This American attacked a reeducation camp. He escaped with perhaps twenty bui doi."
Captain Dai would have spat on the floor in contempt, but spitting in public was forbidden in the united Vietnam.
"This American was last seen driving to the Kampuchean border. Before he ran amok he is reported to have made provocative statements about American POW's. We believe he may be an American intelligence agent sent here to conduct reconnaissance probes. If so, he is very clumsy in his work. But he is a skillful soldier. We cannot find him. That will be your job."
"I will return to this office and report unqualified success."
"I do not care if I ever see you again, Comrade Captain," the defense minister said with open contempt. "I hope the American shoots you dead at the same moment you obliterate him. Then two thorns in my side will be removed with one stroke."
"I will redeem myself "
"Not in these eyes. Dismissed."
Swallowing the bitterness that promised to creep into his voice, Captain Dai saluted smartly and turned on his heel. He was near tears. He had always considered himself a war hero. Now he knew that he had been just a tool. One mistake and they were ready to throw him away. He was certain that even the defeated Americans treated their war heroes better than he had been.
At first light Remo awoke. He was aware of the heavy smell of wet jungle, that unbelievably fecund smell that excited the nostrils. His eyes came open slowly, the hammering of a heavy rain on metal registering on his dazed brain before the light hit his retina.
Remo saw that he was inside the front part of the destroyed bus. A lashing rain made it impossible to see out the windows. He was lying on a pile of seat cushions, his rifle beside him.
The Vietnamese girl who called herself Lan slept nearby.
Remo looked around. They were alone. Out through the gaping, open end of the bus, he could see rainwater pelting twin shallow grooves obviously made when he'd been dragged into the bus. He looked at his heels. They were dirty, caked with red earth.
The girl. Obviously. She had dragged him here after he collapsed. Why had she done that? Remo picked up his rifle and checked it. The magazine was half-full.
Remo climbed over a tangle of seats and shook the girl awake.
She roused slowly. At the sight of his face, she smiled tentatively and Remo wondered if he'd been wrong about her. A VC agent would have shot him without mercy.
"You are awake," she said simply.
"Yeah." He didn't know what else to say. He looked at her face carefully. Her features were not like those of any Vietnamese he had ever seen. Those green, almond-shaped eyes. And those spots on her cheeks. He'd thought they were some kind of tropical skin disease, but they were freckles. Freckles!
"Lan help you. Lan your friend. You remember now?"
"No. I don't remember you."
Lan's smile faded like a cloud intercepting sunlight. "Oh. Lan sorry. "
"You know, I think you are."
"Am. "
"I don't know too many Vietnamese."
"That okay. I not know any American before you." The rain stopped. It was like a faucet shutting off.
"We can't stay here," Remo said. "You say we're in Cambodia?"
"Called Kampuchea now."
Remo made a face. "Yeah, right. Look, do you know which direction Saigon is?"
Lan stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"Toi Muon di Saigon," Remo said in Vietnamese.
Lan shook her head. "Not called Saigon anymore. Ho Chi Minh City."
"Are we going to have to go through that again?"
"Telling truth," Lan said testily. "Saigon old name. New name Ho Chi Minh City."
Remo sighed. "How far?"
"One night's drive. That way."
"Maybe we can reach the command headquarters in An Loc."
"An Loc dangerous. Much fighting."
"I thought you said the war was over."
"For Vietnamese, war never end. Vietnamese Communists fight Khmer Rouge Communists now."
"There's a switch," Remo said. He slid down out of the shattered bus and swore when his feet touched the muddy ground. He had forgotten that he had no boots. His shoes sank, cold, wet mud moistening the socks at his ankles.
"Damn. I could lose my feet walking around like this. "
"We must go. Very dangerous here too."
"Then we walk. You say your name is Lan?"
"Yes, Lan. And you?"
"What about me?"
"Not know your own name?"
"Of course I do. I thought you said you knew me. I wish you'd get your story straight."
"Do know you," Lan said firmly. "You rescue me from camp. Not know your name."
"Remo. U.S. Marines."
"Ah," Lan said. "Marines number one!"
Remo laughed. "Yeah. We're number one, all right. Come on."
They followed the dirt road until it spilled into a blacktop highway. Remo took off his shoes and socks and carried them. The morning sun would dry them off quickly. For now, he was better off walking barefoot. The heat of the day warmed the road. Rainwater steamed off it like water on a skillet.
They walked for miles, encountering no traffic. Then, out of the north came a familiar sound.
"Helicopter," Remo said.
Lan grabbed his belt and tried to pull him off the road.
"Hey! Cut it out," Remo snapped, breaking free. Lan grabbed his wrists this time and strained against him.