South China Sea

“We might accidentally bump into the Khmer Rouge,” Freeman answered.

“Now, Douglas, you listen to me. This is purely a recon patrol to find out about those two MIAs.”

“Exactly!” Freeman yelled, not bothering to duck as enemy mortar rounds exploded in the trees around the MUST tent. “It’s a reconnaissance in force!” Before Jorgensen could object, Freeman added, “I’m sure you’ll agree, General, we owe it to the folks back home to give it our best shot, to rescue any MIAs. Be a feather in your cap, General.”

“I don’t care about feathers in my cap, Douglas.”

“ ‘Course not, sir—” Suddenly the line was frying with static, and it was several seconds before contact was reestablished and Jorgensen made it clear that under no circumstances was his Special Forces group to engage the Khmer Rouge.

“That’s a political decision,” Jorgensen said, adding, “That’s Washington’s call.”

“Of course,” Freeman said, and they signed off amicably enough.

“What’s up?” Cline inquired.

“I’m sending a force west. We’re gonna kick ass, Major.”

“You heard what General Jorgensen said, sir?”

“It was a bad line,” Freeman replied.

“Witnesses,” Cline said.

“Our boys’d have no option if they were attacked.”

Cline paused and from habit looked about for the press aide. “If young Boyd was here, General, I think he’d point out—”

“Young Boyd was a good officer, Major. So are you, but you’ve got to remember you’re in the field. Here we’ve got a chance to teach those Khmer Rouge bastards a lesson. Leave it up to the politicos, and they’d wine and dine the sons of bitches.”

“It’s possible we could rescue some MIAs.”

Freeman looked exasperated, like George C. Scott with a cigar between his teeth. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Major? Some MIAs—you know as well as I do that by now most of those MIAs are long dead and buried or went nuts, paddled off upriver, and shot ‘emselves. ‘Sides, the only damn MIAs I’m interested in right now are those two shitbags running with the Khmer Rouge. By God, I’d like to meet those two — gentlemen.”

“We couldn’t allow them,” Cline began, “I mean, our reconnaissance force — to cross over the Vietnamese border — into Laos.”

“Who said anything about crossing over into Laos?” With a cigar in his mouth, Freeman gave Cline the impression that he was grinning.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Marte Price had not yet returned from Hanoi to Second Army’s rear HQ in Phu Lang Thuong. Even so, Pierre LaSalle knew he had to hurry if he was to find the photo of Freeman shooting one of his wounded men. There was no doubt in LaSalle’s mind that such a photograph existed. There were simply too many rumors for it to be untrue, and LaSalle didn’t know a photographer in the world who wouldn’t keep such a shot. He’d had a duplicate key made from the one he “borrowed” from her purse in the aftermath of their lovemaking, and now he had it in the lock of the gray metal asbestos-lined box. In another second he had the lid open and was rifling through its contents: several nine-by-twelve brown envelopes filled with blowups and negatives, each print marked and numbered according to what roll of film it belonged to.

Even so, LaSalle could tell at once that there were considerably fewer photos printed than there were negatives. “Merde!” It would take him hours to examine every negative. There were hundreds of them. Like most professionals, she’d taken dozens of shots in an effort to capture a story she wanted to file. He was avidly searching through the box for some kind of master index but could find none, only a Sharp electronic organizer notebook. Excitedly he pressed the On button, but couldn’t access it, as it was asking for a password. “Merde!” The Frenchman heard a noise outside, a Hummer coming to a stop, then voices, hers among them, thanking someone for the ride.

“Anytime, ma’am, anytime!”

Quickly, LaSalle’s hands shoveled the contents of the gray box back in, closed the lid, took out the key and sat on her bed, grabbing a magazine from a small pile she had by the bed.

“What the — Pierre!”

“At last!” he said, rising from the bed, taking her hand and gallantly kissing it. “I thought you’d never come. So — how was Hanoi?”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, still in a mild state of shock.

He straightened up and looked at her with a surprised, quizzical gaze. “Waiting for you, of course. I hope you don’t mind. It was raining earlier on, so I let myself in.” He was still holding her hand. “You look — positively ravishing.”

She took off the Vietnamese-style cap and shook her hair loose. “Raining?”

“Oh,” he said, “just a little, but I have an aversion to rain.” He paused, took a step back and gazed at her with mock concern. “Oh dear, you are angry with me for letting myself in.”

“What? Oh, no, not really,” she said. “Just surprised, I guess.”

“Pleasantly, I hope?” he said, a grin passing into a wide smile.

She visibly relaxed and threw her cap over onto the bed. “I didn’t know you’re a fan of Cosmo.”

“What? Oh, the magazine.” He winked at her. “I only look at the pictures.”

“Hmmm,” she said, smiling. “I suppose you’re too sophisticated to read the love advice?”

He glanced down at the pouting beauty dressed in a tight gold lame dress and read aloud, “ ‘How to keep your man— once you’ve landed him.’ “ LaSalle shrugged. “I don’t need advice.”

“Oh,” she answered playfully. “Really?”

“Really. But that’s easy to say. Perhaps we had better put me to the test — yes?”

“Hmmm, maybe,” she responded. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but maybe you should give me time to shower. I’m perspiring like a—” She hesitated.

“Go on,” he said. “Like a what?”

She sat down on the bed, shucked off her Army-issue walking shoes, and began massaging her foot. “Let’s just say I’m sweating, okay?”

“Okay. I love it.”

“What — perspiration?”

“In a woman, yes. How do you say it? It turns me on.”

“You’re sick.”

“For love — yes.”

“Be a sweetie and come back later. I really am dog tired.”

“Dog tired?” He approved of the phrase but wasn’t quite sure why it involved a dog.

“Oh, gimme a break,” she said. “Let me shower and rest for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I am—” He thought hard for a moment. “—devastated!”

“You’ll live,” she said, and changed the subject. “How are things on Disney?”

LaSalle gave a Gallic shrug, his bottom lip saying it all. “Who knows? They are bombing the turd out of —”

“The shit,” she corrected him playfully.

“The what?”

“They’re bombing the shit out of the Chinese.”