The sun was shining that morning when Ortega and Danforth got to the harbour.
The harbour was alive and vibrant.
Operation 'No Man's Land' – thought Ortega, who was walking along one of the narrow piers.
No man's land.
There were people coming and going in all directions and many of them had on characteristic cone-shaped straw hats typical to the area. Rural folk and farmers crowded the waterfront transporting heavy bundles either by bicycle or over their shoulder tied to a pole, while small local boats known as Klongs created the same kind of havoc, except they were in the water.
Judging from his age, the old skipper had probably seen a few wars and and had managed to live through them all.
Once they’d paid him the agreed amount, they watched the old man walk scurry away on the dock before unleashing the moorings.
The engine muttered lazily as the small boat moved away from the bank at a pace that could easily have been a leisurely stroll.
Ortega let out a deep sigh and walked towards the shade to sit down. He needed to rest and under the awning was the right place to do it.
He wasn’t feeling so good.
Not so good at all actually.
He looked down the river to see where they were headed.
Within hours, they’d be in No Man's Land.
***
Two hours later, Ortega descended under the deck, unbuttoned his black farming shirt and checked his bandages on both his arm and chest.
It was a very firm bandage, almost compressed and it served to protect the bullet hole under his arm. It was unique and made especially for that mission so it should have, in theory, protected his wound from brusque movements. Well, at least, he hoped it would.
Ortega kept a Browning High Power pistol behind his back, under his belt without a holster and a small push dagger knife in his boot, just to be on the safe side.
He generally used his butterfly knife, which he always carried with him but for this type of mission, he preferred two knives to one.
Then he had a hidden money belt with two hundred thousand Vietnamese Dongs, which was more than enough money to get yourself killed over in a country like Vietnam. Not to mention the fact that it didn’t even look that real so that didn’t help much either.
The CIA had the best forgers in the world at their disposal, and had them strategically placed in every corner of the world. On very rare occasions and unusual circumstances, when the CIA had to make counterfeit money, it could actually count on bundles of federal funds to make it. The money Ortega was carrying that day only had to look real enough for them to pay, and nothing more than that. It would never have passed any kind of Vietnamese bank check and that’s all Trautman was really interested in. It only had to work for one transaction and nothing else. Needless to say, the risk that Ortega and Danforth were taking on that mission was a high one.
Had the South Vietnamese police caught the two of them with that kind of money on them, no one would have believed they were just Special Forces soldiers. Only God knew what it would have taken Trautman to get them out of it. They’d end up in prison or something, for good.
The reason they needed that money to look so real was that Trautman couldn’t just kill his target. Not this time. The target was too sensitive to just waste and the area where it was going down was a problem in itself. As a consequence, Trautman couldn't simply kill him... although he could get someone else to do it.
Considering the kind of people the target used to work for, pushing someone else into killing him wasn’t going to be that hard either.
Once he’d made sure the bandages were holding up, he secured the money belt around his chest and put his shirt back on.
He swallowed a few pills and made his way onto the upper deck.
It was almost dusk by then.
The area Ortega and Danforth were heading to was considered strictly off limits for any US personnel. It was neutral territory, but frequented by everyone, and by everyone that meant the Vietcong, the North Vietnamese, the South Vietnamese, the FULCRUM terrorists (right-wing terrorists that, for some reason, had sentenced the US to death as well).
A place where everyone, with the exception of no one, worried about going in, you always had to be at the ready and you needed to be unequivocally well armed.
When boats crossed one another in a place like that, they didn’t salute or anything of that manner.
Everyone would stand on deck, pointing their guns at the other boats and waited for the other to pass.
It was supposed to show that you weren’t game for anyone and it had to be done calmly and with composure. Keeping your cool meant everything would go without a glitch. In any case, Ortega hoped they wouldn’t cross any more boats.
*
By the time they got to the tavern night had fallen, but they were still a few hours early for their rendezvous.
The wooden tavern sat on the riverbank and looked like an integrated part of the dock practically only held up by poles.
There were red candles lit all over it illuminating it enough so other boats wouldn’t collide into it.
Mu-Wow was a type of duty-free zone in Tu-Do where killing, the act in itself, was prohibited. Anyone caught trying to kill someone else was taken out himself by local security.
The boat the Baker Team men were on, docked very slowly among numerous other rickety boats.
Ortega looked towards Danforth and the latter acknowledged with a nod. It was time to move on.
The two then stepped onto the dock and walked to the tavern entrance.
The tavern entrance faced onto an open square that was at the time full of mud, so they decided to avoid it and keep their shoes clean. There were two well-built men smoking outside the entrance who immediately caught their attention since it was rare to see men built like that in Vietnam. They were probably from Thailand or somewhere else.
Ortega and Danforth went into the Mu-Wow.
The place was a haze of smoke.
It had high-ceilings, a wide bar and was jam-packed with people drinking, smoking and playing cards.
It was no different from any other happening bar back home in the US swampy regions, like the Everglades in Miami, for instance.
There were whores, pimps, arms dealers, deserters, opium traffickers, Vietcong terrorists, right wing terrorists, Filo-French terrorists and even Montagnard independents. There was a little bit of everything in there.
A big, happy family of killers and they were all taking their break in there at the same time.
They drank, fucked the whores, smoked the opium, played cards and maybe even became friends despite being enemies.
In the end, what really mattered was not running into each other on the outside for any reason.
That place was also, amongst other things, a meeting place for roughly half the US deserters in the area. They were men who had decided to flee their former units and get back to the US on their own or by means to be found at a later date.
A good many of them deserted because they were tired of risking their lives.
A few of the others however, were genuine traitors. They were extremely rare, but there were some.
The vast majority of them were those who had figured out a way to become rich in Vietnam and they wanted to build a new life with a new identity for themselves there.
Be that as it may, Ortega had his own theory about it, and he took it very personally.
In Ortega's opinion, some disappeared because they had already “disappeared” back home.
Yeah, that’s right.
Sometimes, you fight so much you become unexisting.
That's exactly what Ortega thought.
He saw at least two or three men who had Caucasian traits.
He couldn't rule out that maybe they were with the CIA or some other Special Operation Unit with roles not unlike theirs in the past. Even so, Ortega had a feeling that wasn't the case now. He was under the impression those guys were there because they wanted to and it was a choice. That’s right, their choice.
Those men were completely at ease in there, you could see it a mile away.
Ortega took his eyes off them to survey the room for a sign of who might be their contact for this mission.
Shortly thereafter Ortega had second thoughts and reconsidered. It was unlikely his contact would be there already given that they had arrive so far ahead of time, so he decided to take it easy.
Besides, those Americans were far more interesting than his mission at hand was, and it could be his only chance to find out.
To understand.
Indeed, a part of Ortega wanted to genuinely find out.
They had a few drinks while they were waiting and when the first American passed in front them, Ortega offered him a drink
“What the fuck are you doing?” whispered Danforth through a tight jaw but unfortunately, it was already too late.
The American's name was [--------] and he felt like talking.
Boy did he ever.
“I defended Khe Sanh in ‘68,” he said.
“Alongside the Marines even if I was Army and I ended up stuck there by chance. I fought side by side with them, all of us trapped in there during the God-damn siege.”
Ortega nodded. It had been one of the bloodiest battles ever fought in that war and everyone knew it.
The man drank some more but apparently still unsatisfied, he continued:
“Do you have any idea what it means to be under siege? No one gets in or out until the fucking siege is over. First we ran out of food and then we ran out of water. We were even dreaming seeing snipers.
Do you know what it’s like when someone says something to the likes of:
'Man, my tour was supposed to end today but since no one can get in or out, I have to stay and fight. Well you know, that’s because any plane trying to land or take off, gets taken down by machine guns, and if the Vietcong ever try over-run us, we’re dead. So there’s no getting back to the real world for me today. Do you know what they had the nerve to tell me? 'If you want to go home soldier, you’d better pick up a rifle and fight.”
“Is that why you deserted?” Danforth asked.
“No, man, that didn't happen to me. If I only had that much left to do, I’d have gone home. No. I was nine moths short when I decided to flee. Do you know what the point is though?
Do you know what the real problem is?
The real problem is that the friend I was talking you about before, the one who got himself stuck inside during the siege on Khe Sanh's and was supposed to be back home already by then, well that guy got his fingers burnt.
He died two days after he should’ve been home already.
He was killed here and when he was supposed to be with his wife and kids two days before that man.
What’s even worse is that it doesn't end there,” he went on.
He shook his head and clenched his teeth in anger.
“Two days after his death, the fighting stopped and the first plane finally landed on that damn runaway. You know how the story goes.
We all know.
A month later, we left fucking Khe Sanh, it was all over.”
The man had lost his breath he’d talked so much.
He was delirious, probably drunk, but that wasn’t all. There was something else too, but it wasn’t drugs going through his system. As was often the case in Vietnam, it wasn’t uncommon to come across someone on the street, who, for all intents and purposes, seemed drunk, but in all actuality hadn’t had a single drink. They had simply gone crazy.
Being in such a state of mind or ending up in circumstance and context in that mental state in a place like that was dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Even though being noticeable or attracting attention to oneself wasn’t easy in a place like that, Ortega didn't want to take any chances.
“You’ve already been here about a year so what are you going to do next? I mean, what are doing here?” asked Danforth. He didn't think Ortega should have been talking to that guy in the first place, but now that he had, well, Danforth was just as curious about him as Ortega was.
“I am working for the Fulcrum now – replied the man – we move opium around mostly. Everybody is interested in opium around here which means there's no risk of anybody trying to knock us off, or at least not extensively I mean. Obviously, sooner or later someone will try to keep the money and the stuff by force, but that kind of risk is calculated and part of the job. Believe me, when I was in the army I risked a lot more, every hour of every day. At least I have all the money I want here, and I enjoy it too. How about you two on the other hand, what do you guys do?”
Ortega was almost tempted to tell him the truth, but then, of course, he used the cover story.
“We deal arms.”
“Buyers or sellers?”
“Buyers.”
“I get it, but you’re not deserters.”
“No man, we’re civilians and that's our 'second job'. We’re with General Electric.”
“GE has two plants and they’re both in Saigon. You’re pretty far away from home.”
“He – started Ortega, pointing to Danforth – is a bigwig in there, not a guy like everybody else. He comes and goes as he pleases.”
“No man, if someone ends up in a place like this, he’s no bigwig. You’re bullshitting me, but it doesn't matter. I don't care. See those guys? That's my crew. One’s a Hmong, and the other is half-French, a bastard in all senses. They know their shit though, and no one messes with us. Are you sure you guys aren't with the CIA or something? You can tell me.”
In a place like that, and to a man like him, if anything, Ortega could have admitted to belonging to the SOG, and yet he preferred not to. Given that he and Danforth were still waiting for their contact to show up, he felt it was probably better not to trust anyone as of yet.
So, he decided to change the subject.
“You’ve still got a family, haven’t you? A wife, parents, whatever. Do they know that you are still alive down hear? Have you tried to get in touch with them?”
“Ha!” he said.
“A family, well, sure I do, what the fuck! My parents, well those cocksuckers were the ones who pushed me into enlisting the in the first place despite me not wanting to. I was so lucky too! I didn’t even get fucking drafted, God damn it! I didn't give a shit about the reds or about the North Vietnamese government killing their own people with bombs in South Vietnamese schools or hospitals,., blah, blah, blah.
I cared even fucking less about the domino theory.
I didn't give a fuck about anything or anyone and they knew it. I didn’t give a shit about my girlfriend either; and I still can’t understand how the hell I ended up with such a bitch in the first place.
Probably just to unload, so basically for the same reason as everybody else.
I fucking hate them all, man. I really do despise them all. My motherfucking parents, who made me enlist and end up in the siege of Khe Shan's. They made me suffer like a fucking bastard at home and then they made me suffer like hell, insisting I enlist in Vietnam. I risked dying like a dog because of them.
What’s even worse is that knowing them, they were probably fucking disappointed to discover that their only son wasn’t even killed in combat, but just missing.”
Those words left both Ortega and Danforth horror-stricken.
They thought they’d seen and heard pretty much everything by then, especially in that war, but that never seemed to be the case however. They were uncomfortably surprised; something they didn’t think was virtually possible anymore, not after fighting so long as soldiers for the Special Forces it wasn’t.
Jesus fucking Christ– thought Ortega.
This guy’s the devil.
He’s fucking Satan, he is..
“Anyway, you can tell me if you’re CIA or not. I know the CIA doesn’t drag deserters back by force. It’s too much work so they just ignore them. Besides, the CIA wouldn’t have the nerve to grab any deserters in here either, considering how this place works...”
“You’re drunk,” Ortega said to him.
He turned to Danforth and said:
“It's getting late so we should probably get going. I guess our contact isn’t coming after all.”
“Oh come on, the next round’s on me, guys. Let's fucking drink on it. I hardly ever get to fucking speak English anymore, I almost miss it.”
Ortega and Danforth looked at one other.
“Come on, I’ll sell your fucking weapons for you, assholes. I'm the one you guys were waiting for. Who do you think you’re gonna’ sell them to? The South fucking Vietnamese maybe, or to the Pro-American illegals? Not that I actually give a flying fuck about it.”
The stranger guzzled down the rest of his drink, looked back at Ortega and Danforth and saw the look of surprise on both their faces.
Smiling, he retorted:
“Seriously, I’m you contact gentleman. Come on, let's go outside and have a smoke.”
They agreed without commenting but acknowledged with a nod, turned and left the bar.
As the three of them walked across the muddy square on their way to the docks, they noticed the deserter stumbled somewhat as they did.
When they were almost at the boat, the man took out his cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and turned to Ortega and asked for a light.
“Let me have your Zippo, will you?” he said to Ortega, in a taunting voice.
Ortega passed it to him.
“It’s nice. Mind if I borrow it?”
Ortega looked over at him not hiding the expression of how annoyed he was getting on his face. He nodded in accordance all the same however.
Not walking far behind them, Danforth undid his jacket slightly and slid his hand in to where he was packing. He was getting the feeling he needed to keep an eye on what was going on around him.
“Hey, Mr. General Electric, you won’t be needing that anytime soon so why don’t you just show me the fucking money, and let’s get down to business.”
Ortega lifted his black shirt up a little so he could take off the money belt he'd on.
He undid its front pocket baring a large wad of money, one of the many it had inside.
“Good,” said the deserter obviously satisfied. He then turned around and quickly walked towards the dock, stopping short of the water.
He lit the Zippo waving it above his head so it was visible from afar, and then handed it back to Ortega.
“Here, you can even have your zippo back now.”
Not long after, a boat docked and two of the crew on board began unloading the crates onto the dock stacking them one on top of the other.
“I'll go get the boat,” Danforth said, looking at Ortega, who then nodded in compliance.
He then turned and walked away, leaving Ortega, the deserter and the other boat’s crew.
As they were waiting, Ortega turned to the deserter and said under his voice:
“Weren't those men on your crew as well?”
“No way, they’re nothing but two fucking assholes I’d love to see six feet under. I’ve been doing this trick for more than a year now and no one’s been knocked off yet. It’s all part of the job. There are a lot of precautions that have to be taken, man.”
He shifted his sight back to the crates still being unloaded.
“Anyway, I’ll find a way to get those bastards wasted somehow. You'll see, man. You’ll see.”
The smugglers stood steadfastly on their deck as they attentively watched on while Danforth manoeuvred the two boats closer and closer. When the vessels were finally situated side by side, no time was wasted and the crates were quickly moved from one deck onto the other.
Once done, Ortega passed the money belt to one of the two men, who then, in turn instantly handed it to the deserter. That was the moment when there was no longer any doubt that the deserter truly was the one in charge.
“See what I mean? Easy money, man, easy as pie,” he said to Ortega.
Just like that, the vessel, along with its smugglers seemingly disappeared into the night, as quick as it had come. Gone without a trace. Well, almost without a trace. The guy was still there.
Danforth was opening every single crate one at a time, checking to see if everything was in order.
“They left you here?” Ortega asked him.
“It's a gesture of good faith,” said the American deserter, as he lit himself a cigarette. This time however, he used his own lighter.
“If you don't care for the goods, you can always try to do me in.”
“That won't be necessary - answered Danforth - it’s all in order.”
“Awesome. That being said, I think we can say our goodbyes here then.”
“I'll walk you back,” Ortega said looking over at him.
Danforth shot Ortega a nasty look, but Ortega gave him a nod back, implying everything was under control.
Ortega and the American walked across the square getting their shoes full of mud for the second time.
Now that the deserter felt happier and somewhat relieved, he let himself go back to being drunk too.
He had had a lot to drink and now that the tension had dropped, the alcohol was starting to hit him again.
“My man, my man...” he stammered to Ortega.
“Tonight boom boom. I’d offer you a lay, but this money needs to last me a long time.”
“Here we are,” said Ortega once they’d made it to the door.
He then, looked at him before adding:
“Let’s shake on it.”
The man agreed and Ortega reached out for his hand gripping onto it firmly, but rather than letting go immediately, he held onto it instead.
In seconds, Ortega’s head had moved forward and was right up in the deserter’s face. When he leaned up to his eardrum, he told the deserter, in a low voice:
“They're gonna’ kill you, man! You’ve got to get the hell out of here, now and make sure you never come back.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Shut up you stupid mother fucker. Shut the fuck up, just listen. Get away from this place and don’t ever bother coming back. Get outta’ here now and get it through your thick fucking skull: I’m the one who screwed you this time, and screwed you good, without you even catching on. If you go back to your men now, you’re a goner. All you can do now is find the nearest US base and give yourself in, and I mean tonight if you value your life. Most people have one life to live. Tonight, I was the one who decided you’d get a second chance. Got it?”
At first, he stared at Ortega in confusion.
It didn’t take long at all for the reality to set in however, and, his expression changed to one of fear.
“I’m not joking, you asshole. This time, I was the one who fucked you over, and if you don't leave right now, you’re a dead man.”
Ortega finally let go of his hand and stepped back away from him.
The deserter remained stock-still a moment longer gawking until he finally turned to leave. He froze and was stunned by what he’d just heard.
Ortega left.
“What the fuck did you just do, Skorpio?” said Danforth outraged, as Ortega climbed on board.
“Nothing, let’s just get the fuck out of here though. And fast.”
The boat rumbled moving forward.
“Trautman was right,” grunted Danforth.
“Jesus Christ, look at this equipment. It’s all electronic shit and Trautman was right, if we hadn’t taken this guy’s stuff of the market…”
“Jesus,” Ortega said brusquely looking behind them and now somewhat worried.
“Okay,” answered Danforth closing the crate again.
The two Baker Team soldiers, along with their boat vanished into the darkness.