didn’t buy it then and I ain’t buying it now. You hear me?”
Silence from below.
“Okay, we’ll see how stubborn you are after another night down there.”
Junior stood and walked back to the cabin.
FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson walked into her apartment to a ringing phone. She answered; it was Sheriff J. D. Johnson from Boundary County, Idaho. He confirmed that the colonel and John Brice were in Bonners Ferry.
“They think the girl’s up on a mountain. Place called Red Ridge.”
“I think she’s up there, too.”
“Thought the FBI closed the case when the abductor hanged himself?”
“We were wrong. Sheriff, you ever heard of Major Charles Woodrow Walker.”
“Hell, yes, I heard of him. You people arrested him over at the hospital what, ten years back? Don’t know what happened to him after that.”
“He died in Mexico. Do you know about his court-martial?”
“Vaguely, something about a massacre in Vietnam?”
“Yes. Place called Quang Tri. Colonel Brice testified against him.”
“Don’t tell me this major was part of a team code-named Viper?”
“He commanded it.”
“Damn. Colonel Brice found their camp all right. Said this was about an old score. Guess that’s what he meant.”
“Major Walker’s son abducted the girl, but not because of Colonel Brice. Because the mother was one of his father’s prosecutors. The others are all dead, except Mrs. Brice and the president.”
“ The president?”
“Yes, President McCoy. He was the FBI Director back then.”
“Well, Colonel Brice done found your boy and that’s probably a good thing.”
“Why's that?”
“Because he don’t have to play by our rules.”
“In Indian territory, Lieutenant, we make our own rules. First rule, we don’t follow command’s bullshit rules, particularly the rules of engagement that say we can’t fire on the enemy unless we’re fired upon first. No one gets a free shot at Viper team. We kill them before they kill us.
“Second rule, they all look the same, the enemy we’re supposed to kill and the civilians we’re supposed to save. NVA regulars, they’ll be in uniform. But not VC. They’re guerrillas, fathers and sons of the peasant class. Out in the bush, you won’t know whether a peasant is going to welcome you or shoot you until he does. When in doubt, shoot the gook.
“Third rule, a conscience is a dangerous thing in a shooting war. Your conscience can get you killed-that’s your business. But your conscience can get your team members killed-that’s my business. Leave your conscience right here in Saigon. Don’t take it out in the bush. Out there, ain’t no right or wrong. There’s killing the enemy or going home in a body bag.”
The major finishes his meal and pushes his plate aside.
“Fourth rule, and the most important rule to remember: you’re not fighting this war for the American people. They don’t give a damn about you or this war or these people or the Communist threat to the world. They’re back home smoking dope and making love not war and enjoying the peace and prosperity we provide them. Don’t ever expect support from civilians.
“You’re fighting this war for your Army. The West Point Army. Because your Army does give a damn about fighting this war and stopping Communism at the Seventeenth Parallel. Your Army understands the threat of Communism. Your Army knows that American civilians won’t get behind the fight against Communism in the world until Russian atomic bombs detonate over New York. Then they’ll come crying to us to save them and preserve their peace and prosperity and fight for their freedom. And we will-we are now, they just don’t know it. But your Army does. Your Army will stand in the door for you, your Army won’t abandon you when the going gets tough, your Army will never betray you.”
The major’s crystal blue eyes are boring into Ben’s.
“And you, Lieutenant Ben Brice, must never betray your Army.”
“Yes, sir.”
1 Dec 68. The American Bar on Tu Do Street in Saigon, South Vietnam, is noisy with the sounds of rock-and- roll music and giggling Asian dolls and drunken American officers. Lieutenant Ben Brice is in awe of the man sitting across the table. Charles Woodrow Walker graduated from the Academy fifteen years before Ben, but Ben knows all about him, as does every cadet who attended West Point after the major. Charles Woodrow Walker, they say, is the next MacArthur.
“I wanted you on my team,” the major says, “because your commanding officer at Fort Bragg says you’re the best damn sniper he’s ever seen. You got your Viper tattoo, now you get this.” The major pushes a long flat package across the table to Ben. “Welcome to SOG team Viper.”
Ben opens the package. Inside is a shiny Bowie knife with VIPER etched into the wide eleven-inch-long blade.
“Every man on Viper team carries a Bowie. Stick that in a gook’s gut, guaranteed to ruin his whole fucking day.”
“Yes, sir.”
The major hands Ben a small ID card with Ben’s photo, name, rank, blood type, and serial number-and words in bold type:
MILITARY ASSISTANCE COMMAND VIETNAM
STUDIES AND OBSERVATION GROUP
THE PERSON WHO IS IDENTIFIED BY THIS DOCUMENT
IS ACTING UNDER THE DIRECT ORDERS OF THE
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!
DO NOT DETAIN OR QUESTION HIM!
“Your ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card,” the major says. “We report directly to the president. No one fucks with SOG.”
“Yes, sir.”
The major drinks his beer then says, “The Academy, Brice, is a great school. But forget every damn thing you learned there. The wars they taught you about, World War One, Two, Korea, they’re not this war. Everything you learned over there don’t mean dick over here. In this war, napalm is your best friend.”
A middle-aged American officer with a Viet bargirl under each arm stops at their table. Ben sees three silver stars and jumps up and salutes the lieutenant general. The major barely lifts his eyes then returns to his beer.
“The great Major Charles Woodrow Walker,” the general says with slurred speech. “A legend in his own mind.”
The major drinks his beer then says to Ben, “Last time a Saigon commando interrupted my dinner, I slapped his butt into the next lunar new year.”
The girls giggle and the general’s face turns red: “You stand and salute me, goddamn it! I outrank you!”
The major turns his full attention on the general, who recoils slightly.
“First of all, General, I don’t salute rear-echelon officers who ain’t gonna get any closer to a Communist in this war than fucking these Viet Minh girls. And second, as long as I’m in-country, only the president outranks me. You got a problem, call him.”
The general appears as if he’s about to explode, but he says nothing as he storms off.
“American soldiers are dying this very minute fighting the Communists. The general, he sits here in Saigon, lying about body counts to the press, more worried about Walter Cronkite than Ho Chi Minh.”
He shakes his head with disdain.
“We move out at dawn, hop a slick to Dak To, meet the team. Then up to Lang Vei, get our gear together,
