I had not seen a single sign that showed distances between cities, or even a sign that showed the name of a city. We were doing this all by map. The road itself was alternately good and terrible, mostly terrible. This place had a long way to go, but in fairness, after thirty years of war, they’d come a long way.
Susan said, “We should be approaching Quang Ngai. It’s on this side of the Tra Khuc River, and Highway One becomes the main street. Maybe we shouldn’t try to get through the town at this hour. And even if we found an open station, you’d have to change places with Mr. Cam.”
“So, what’s your suggestion?”
“I suggest we pull the car into some trees and wait until dawn. We can go into Quang Ngai in the morning and fill up.”
“All right. Look for a place to pull over.”
I slowed down, and we looked for a place where the car would be out of sight.
We were only a few kilometers from Quang Ngai, and I could see the lights of the town on the horizon. It was amazing, I thought, how distinct the towns were from the surrounding countryside, with no urban or suburban sprawl, no shopping malls, and obviously no gas stations. On the plus side, I hadn’t seen a cop on the highway since we started, except the two I ran into a ditch. But according to Susan, the military patrolled the highway after dark, and if there was one single military vehicle on the road, and one civilian car — this one — we’d be pulled over for no reason. The ace in the hole, of course, was the Colt .45. They wouldn’t expect that.
Quang Ngai was right up the road, about a kilometer, but I didn’t see any place to pull over. It was mostly rice paddies and villages, and the land was open, except for small stands of palm trees which didn’t offer any concealment.
I spotted a rise of land in the middle of a rice paddy that was connected to the highway by a dirt causeway or dike. I knew what this was, but it took a few seconds before it came to me. I said, “That’s a burial mound over there. We can park on the far side of it, and no one will see us.”
I slowed down and cut the wheels onto the dirt causeway that ran through the flooded rice paddies.
All of a sudden, Mr. Cam started going nuts. “What’s his problem?”
“He says that’s a burial mound.”
“I know what it is. We used to dig our night positions into burial mounds. Soft earth, good elevation, fields of fire—”
“He wants to know why you’re driving to the burial mound. You should stop.”
I stopped halfway to the big mound, and Mr. Cam calmed down. “What’s he saying?”
Susan spoke to him, and he got agitated again. She said to me, “I told him we were going to spend the night there. He’s not too thrilled about that.”
“Come on. They’re all dead. Tell him we’ll be very respectful, and we’ll pray all night.”
“Paul, he won’t spend the night on a burial mound. You’d have to hogtie him. They’re very superstitious, and it’s also disrespectful.”
“I’m not superstitious or culturally sensitive.”
“Paul.”
“Okay.” I threw the Nissan into reverse and backed it down the narrow dirt dike. I got on the highway, threw the car into gear, and we continued on. As soon as you do something nice, your luck runs out.
And sure enough, coming up the highway toward us was a pair of headlights, about a kilometer away. I killed my headlights and slowed down. The oncoming lights were too low to the ground to be a truck or bus, so it had to be something smaller, like a four-wheel drive, probably a military patrol.
Susan said, “Paul, pull off the road.”
“I know.” I put the Nissan in four-wheel drive and drove down the raised road embankment. There was no drainage ditch because the rice paddy was right at the bottom of the embankment. I drove parallel to the road with my right wheels in the rice paddy muck, and my left wheels on the side of the embankment. We were at a forty-five degree angle, maybe more, and I was concerned that the Nissan might flip. My rear wheels were starting to slip and sink into the muck. I stopped.
I looked up at the road and saw that I wasn’t really out of sight. But it was dark enough to hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. I said to Susan, “Give me the tote bag.”
I could hear the vehicle approaching now and saw the head beams coming closer.
She passed the bag to me, and I put my hand inside and found the pistol grip. I didn’t want Mr. Cam to see the gun because that could be the thing that sent him to the police.
I could feel the end of the magazine seated in the pistol grip. I clicked off the safety. I asked Susan, “Magazine fully loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a round chambered?”
“No.”
“Extra magazines?”
“Two.” She added, “I’m frightened.”
I looked at Mr. Cam, who seemed apprehensive. I had the impression he was rehearsing his story for the authorities, and was glad he was tied up.
Within a few seconds, I could see the top of the vehicle as it approached. It was a big enclosed jeep-like vehicle, painted dark, not yellow, and I recognized it as military. I saw the driver, who was concentrating on the road, and a man in the rear.
The Nissan’s roof was about level with the raised highway, it was painted dark blue, it was a dark night, and the gods were with us. The military vehicle kept going.
We sat there for what seemed like a long time, then I put the Nissan into reverse, the rear wheels caught, and the Nissan backed up the embankment.
I sat on the road for a few seconds with the headlights still off and looked around. It was so dark I could barely see ten yards in any direction.
I began moving forward again without lights toward Quang Ngai. The glow from the town silhouetted some buildings on both sides of the road, and I saw something that looked promising. I pointed the Nissan toward the silhouette, stopped, and snapped on the headlights.
There on the right, at the end of a dirt trail, was a ruined structure without a roof. I hoped it wasn’t a Buddhist temple or we’d have another problem with Mr. Cam.
I drove slowly onto the dirt path that cut through the rice paddies, and I pulled up to the front of the white stucco structure. On the front peak, I could see the remains of what had been a church belfry. I said to Susan, “Catholic church. I hope this guy isn’t also Catholic.”
She said something to Mr. Cam, and he nodded.
I drove through the wide doorway and into the church, then cut the wheels and backed the Nissan into the front corner of the church so it couldn’t be seen from the road.
The headlights illuminated what was basically just a shell of a building with vegetation growing through the rubble-strewn concrete floor.
I killed the lights and the engine, and said, “Well, this is it for the night.”
We all got out and stretched, except that Mr. Cam couldn’t stretch his arms very well, so I untied him.
Susan got the water and the snacks out of the car, and we had a terrible dinner. I asked her, “Didn’t they have Ring Dings or cheese crackers in that gas station? What is this stuff?”
“I don’t know. Candy. Stop complaining. In fact, you should say grace.”
Mr. Cam ate more than his share of the stuff in the cellophane bags, and he drank a whole liter of water by himself.
I had no choice but to tie him up again, so I bound his thumbs behind his back, took his sandals, and put him in the rear of the Nissan, where he lay down on the seat.
Susan and I sat cross-legged in the corner opposite the Nissan. The only illumination came from the starlight into the roofless building. She observed, “It must have been a nice country church once.”