talking, though every so often the man would turn and say a few words, gesturing with great intensity. Their conversation continued for several minutes after the truck was full. Then the man and Mara walked into the building. They emerged a few minutes later with a pair of five-gallon gas cans. These, too, were filled, and placed in the back of the truck.
“I’m going to have Kerfer come back and fill up,” Mara said when she got back in the truck. “The old man says he’s the only place around that has gas.”
“Maybe he’s just saying that to drum up business,” said Squeaky.
“No, I don’t think so. He hasn’t gotten any deliveries for the past week, and I doubt anyone else has, either. Once the war started, the gas the Chinese didn’t blow up was probably confiscated by the army.”
Kerfer and the others were waiting about a half mile down the road. Mara insisted that she would be the one to go back, since Kerfer didn’t know much Vietnamese. They left Josh and the SEALs and went back. Josh sat in the front seat, staring through the windshield, his mind jumbled. The lower part of his stomach and groin felt as if they were on fire. Heat poured from his forehead. But whatever disease or sickness he’d picked up was only part of what was bothering him. His brain felt scrambled, unable and unwilling to process what was going on around him. There were too many jumbled contrasts, too much death and contradiction.
M?, drowsy, leaned against him, once more sucking her thumb.
She was sleeping. Gazing at her, Josh realized she didn’t have her doll. She’d lost it somewhere in the train car.
Damn.
Outside the truck, the SEALs plopped down in the shade, watching the road and waiting. One of the men — Silvestri, an Italian-American who claimed to be the only “wop” who lived in Texas — realized that he had bits of blood on his shirt from the railcar, and pulled it off, stripping to his undershirt. The others began joking, making cracks about his physique, then about the blood, then about the ghosts that would be clinging to Silvestri’s shirt.
The jokes were mild by SEAL standards, but Josh was appalled.
“How can you guys joke?” he said. He repeated the question several times, talking more to himself, though his voice was just loud enough for Squeaky to hear.
“What’s up, Josh?” Squeaky asked, coming over to the truck.
“You guys are joking.”
“Just blowing off some steam.”
“The officer’s head burst open like it was a tomato,” said Josh.
“Yeah.” Squeaky smiled awkwardly. “That’s what happens.”
“It sucks.”
“Would you rather it’d been you?” asked Mancho. His voice was sharp and defensive.
“No,” said Josh.
“I know what he means,” said Little Joe. “You’re that close to something like that — it gets to you.”
“Everything gets to you,” said Mancho. “Because you’re a wimp.”
“I’m worse than a wimp,” said Little Joe. “I’m a little girly wimp.” He laughed.
“You okay?” Squeaky asked Josh.
Josh nodded.
Squeaky reached in. “Man, you’re burnin’ up. You got a fever. You know that?”
“I guess.”
“You want some aspirin?”
“I took some.”
“Baby sleepin’?”
“Yeah.”
“If you’re sick, you think you oughta be that close?”
“I carried her through the jungle a couple of days,” said Josh. “If she’s going to catch it, she’d have it by now.”
“True.”
Squeaky went back to the others, joking by the side of the truck again.
Josh went back to staring out the windshield.
“We should be able to get pretty close to Saigon with the gas we have,” she told him as they turned onto the road. “I don’t know what the conditions are going to be. We haven’t seen any panic yet, but it may be different in the south.”
“Yeah.”
“The Chinese army is moving down the western valleys,” Mara continued. “They were stopped at the Hoa Binh Lake area, but once they get past that, they have a clear shot at Ninh Binh. That’s the next concentration of troops we have to get around. We should start seeing them in about an hour. The people here haven’t seen much of the war yet.”
Mara stopped talking and turned to Josh. Her face was close, only inches away. “Are you all right?” she asked him.
“I’m here,” he answered.
“Your stomach?”
“It hurts when I pee.”
“And you have a fever.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll have help for you soon,” she said, a worried look on her face. “Hang in there.”
“I’m here.”
14
Jing Yo had left his weapons at Hyuen Bo’s house. He was worried that explaining even a pistol might be difficult, and until he located his target and had a plan, the risk did not make sense. Besides, if circumstances were right, Jing Yo could easily kill him with his hands and feet.
Lenin Park had been turned into an antiaircraft site. Tanks and a throng of soldiers blocked off access. Beyond them, Jing Yo could see trucks with antiaircraft cannon mounted on their backs.
He walked in the direction of the river for a few blocks, then headed north. His first stop was the Hilton Hanoi Opera, an overwhelming building of grand design, mirroring the city’s opera house next door.
The men at the door were wearing pistols conspicuously strapped to their hips. One stopped Jing Yo as he started inside.
“Are you a guest?” the man asked.
“I’m to meet someone here,” he said.
“Who?”
Jing Yo considered his answer.
“An American,” he said finally.
“Who?” demanded the guard.
“Joshua MacArthur,” said Jing Yo, deciding there was no sense in not naming his subject. “He works for the UN.”
“Wait here,” said the guard.
Jing Yo folded his arms and took a step back from the door. The two other doormen were frowning at him.
