good are they?” Van Garten had said on the very first day.
Van Garten was a realist; he’d spoken of the dark side of science — the atom bomb, mutations gone awry. But in the end, again and again, he maintained that science’s aim must overall be toward the good. He invoked Teilhard de Chardin — Catholic priest and philosopher — to imply that man’s innate nature was good, and that science, if true to that nature, would be good as well.
But having seen what he’d seen in the jungle, Josh had to question whether that was really true.
The old men and women massacred by the Chinese in the village: what did they know of man’s innate nature? What about the infants?
Man’s nature was brutal, and ugly, and beyond redemption. What science could possibly redeem the acts of the killers?
Kill or be killed? That wasn’t even in the equation. Kill for the sake of killing.
But that wasn’t what he was about. Was it?
“Smart thing, getting out of there,” said Little Joe, pulling open the door. “Whew.”
The SEAL waved his hand in front of his face, smiling. His nickname was apt. Little Joe stood only about five four. He wasn’t particularly broad-shouldered, and while all SEALs exuded a certain toughness, he didn’t seem particularly threatening. Even when they’d been escaping under fire from the Chinese, he’d had the demeanor of a guy grabbing a beer at a keg party, the sort of guy who’d smile at you when you walked up, give you his plastic cup, and get himself another one.
He’d also fed grenades into his grenade launcher like they were M&M’s. He’d hung off the back of the van firing while a half dozen Chinese soldiers tried to perforate him, firing well over a hundred rounds into everything but his flesh.
The easygoing smile and shrugs made the more lasting impression.
“Jeez, you hold that like you know what you’re doing,” said Little Joe, pointing at the submachine gun. “Ya gonna give it back, or ya gonna make me wrestle ya for it?”
Josh handed the weapon over.
“You all packed? Ready to go?” asked Little Joe.
“I don’t have much,” said Josh.
“Travel light, right?” Little Joe gave one of his chortles. “Let’s go then. We gotta meet the spook lady.”
Josh followed the SEAL through the hall toward the back of the building. They came out in a narrow alley. Another SEAL, Eric Wright, was there with a pickup truck they’d commandeered.
M? was sitting next to him, sucking her thumb. She opened her mouth wide as Josh slid in, then threw herself on him.
“Hey, I’m happy to see you, too,” he told her. “How are ya?”
M? didn’t understand what he said; she spoke only Vietnamese.
“She’s a doll,” said Eric. “Cute kid.”
“Been through hell,” said Little Joe, squeezing in on the other side of Josh. M? sat on Josh’s lap, giving them all room.
“Where’d you get the truck?” Josh asked. It was a two-door Toyota, maybe a year old.
“Nice wheels, huh?” said Little Joe. “Not even a dent.”
“Where’d you get it?” asked Josh, trying to make conversation.
“Rental lot,” said Eric.
“How much is a rental here?”
“Cheap,” Little Joe chortled. “We paid with SEAL.”
“Call it an exchange,” said Eric. “We took the truck, and, in exchange, we didn’t blow nothin’ up.”
As they drove out of the alley onto the main street, both men became silent, watching their surroundings. Little Joe was still smiling, but his eyes were darting.
“Patrol up there,” he said. “Two guys on the deuce.”
“Yeah,” grunted Eric.
Technically, the truck they’d spotted wasn’t a deuce-and-a-half, military slang for a two-and-a-half-ton transport used by the army to haul men and supplies. But the description was close enough: the vehicle was a troop truck with a canvas back, similar in purpose if not exact detail. Ironically, the vehicle was made by China, which before the war had done a fair amount of trade with Vietnam.
“Sniper up on that building,” said Eric.
Little Joe leaned forward to look as they passed. “Just guarding something,” he said. “Just watching. Not a sniper.”
“You know what the hell I mean, man.”
“Well then say it.”
“Hey, fuck you. He’s a sniper, all right?”
“Watch the language. We got a kid.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s he going to snipe at?”
“The rabble.”
Little Joe laughed. “They have these guys in the city to show the people they’re safe,” he told Josh. “It’s psychological. They don’t want panic.”
“That’s bull,” said Eric. “They’re looking for SEALs. And spies. And Santa Claus, ‘cause they know he comes by rooftop.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Little Joe. “He’s nuts. He flunked colors in kindergarten.”
“Look who’s talking,” said Eric. “Don’t listen to him, kid. He can’t find his dick in a bathroom. Stick with me. I’ll give you the straight story.”
“Hey — watch it for the kid.”
“Sorry.”
The two SEALs traded put-downs — without any more four-letter words — as they wended their way through the capital. The streets were far less crowded than they had been two weeks before, when Josh was here with the expedition team, gathering supplies and preparing to go into the jungle.
And yet, the destruction he saw was less than he would have expected.
“I’m amazed there’s so many buildings still standing,” he said.
“Don’t let that fool you,” said Little Joe. “Airport’s pretty much leveled, and a lot of the important government buildings are wiped out.”
“Takes a lot to steamroll a city,” added Eric. “But they’re working on it.”
“Come back next week,” said Little Joe. “City’ll be one big pile of rubble.”
“Nah, they won’t waste the ammo,” said Eric. “Waste of time to blow everything up.”
“Chinese invented gunpowder. They like blowing sh — stuff up,” he added, amending his language midstream because of M?.
“So do I, but I wouldn’t waste it on Hanoi.”
“That’s it,” said Little Joe, pointing to a brown brick building. “Shop’s around the back.”
Eric pulled over. Little Joe hopped out, pushing the door closed behind him. He eyed the street left and right, then motioned Josh out. He took M? by the hand and walked with her through the alley side by side to a blue door. It was a small restaurant. Mara was sitting at a table in the corner, speaking to a hollow-cheeked Vietnamese man. The man fidgeted almost violently, turning his head left and right and flailing his elbows almost as if they were wings and he was trying to take off. Mara looked up as they came in and glared at them.
“Here,” said Josh, realizing that she didn’t want them to interrupt. “Let’s take this table.”
Little Joe pulled out a chair and sat down, positioning himself so he could see the entire room. His back was to Mara and the man.
A woman came over. Josh had only enough Vietnamese to realize she was asking what they wanted.
“Me, too,” said Little Joe, in English.
The woman glanced nervously at his submachine gun, which he’d put on his lap. Josh signaled with his fingers that they wanted two of the coffees.
“Milk for M??” he said.
