I guess he got over being kidnapped, almost killed in a high-speed chase, being tied up, sleeping out in the cold, and being threatened with death. Or, maybe he was smiling because he was thinking about his tip. Or maybe his revenge. The unhappy truth is, if Susan hadn’t been with me, I’d have had no choice but to kill Mr. Cam. Well, of course I had a choice, but the right choice was to get rid of him. And yet, deep inside of me, I knew I’d killed too many Vietnamese, including the two cops, and the thought of killing yet another made my stomach knot up. But if I believed that what I was doing here was important and right, then just like in 1968, when I believed the same bullshit, I’d do what I had to do for God, for country, and for Paul Brenner.
The Da Nang airport was off in the distance to our right, and beyond the airport, I could see the low skyline of the big city.
The airport, I recalled, was bigger and better than Tan Son Nhat because the Americans had built it from scratch. Now, according to my map, it was designated as an international airport. I said to Susan, “You could dry a lot of manioc on those runways.”
“It’s a major civilian and military field. In a few years, you’ll be able to fly to the States from there.”
“How about right now?”
“There are already American cargo planes making the run once in a while.”
Actually, I knew this. This was escape Plan C, according to Mr. Conway. Paul Brenner in an air shipment container labeled bananas or something. Might work. Might not.
She got her camera out and took a picture of the airport in the distance. She said, “A souvenir for you. And no one is trying to kill you this… well… you know what I mean.”
“Right.”
“I fly up here once in a while on business. Did you say you never got to China Beach?”
“Nope.”
“Monkey Mountain?”
“Hate monkeys.”
“I guess you weren’t here too long.”
“I was here for exactly seventy-one hours and ten minutes. And I never stepped foot out of the airbase.”
“Right. You wanted to go home.”
“In a passenger seat, not the cargo hold.”
I recalled another television show from the last days of South Vietnam and said to Susan, “In about late March of 1975, as the end drew near, World Airways sent two 727s on a mercy mission to rescue civilian refugees at Da Nang Airbase. When the first plane landed, about a thousand hysterical men, women, and children mobbed the aircraft. But the South Vietnamese military decided that they deserved to be saved instead of the civilians, and they began firing at the refugees, and two hundred soldiers from the South Vietnamese Black Panther regiment threw everyone off the aircraft but themselves.”
“That’s awful.”
“The pilot of the second 727 had the good sense not to land, but television cameras in that aircraft captured the sight of refugees hanging in the wheel wells of the first aircraft as it flew over the South China Sea. One by one, the people in the wheel wells fell off.”
“My God…”
I tried to imagine the panic and desperation of those last days before the final surrender. Millions of refugees, entire military units falling apart instead of fighting, paralysis in Saigon and in Washington, and the mesmerizing images of chaos and disintegration flashing across television screens around the world. A total humiliation for us, a complete disaster for them.
As it turned out, the bad guys weren’t that bad, and the good guys weren’t that good. It’s all perception, public relations, and propaganda anyway. Both sides had been dehumanizing each other for so long, they’d forgotten they were all Vietnamese, and all human.
Susan said, “I never knew any of this… no one talks about it.”
“Probably just as well.”
Highway One came to a T-intersection, and I looked at my map and pointed to the left. Mr. Cam made the turn, and we continued on. The highway around Da Nang was heavy with trucks, cars, and buses, and Mr. Cam played chicken with oncoming traffic every minute or so.
Susan told him to cool it, and he stayed behind a truck, which made him unhappy. It was Tet Eve, and he wanted to be back with his family in Nha Trang. He’d come very close to being there in spirit only.
The land started to rise, and I could see huge mountains up ahead, with spurs running right down into the South China Sea. The map showed that the highway went through these mountains, but I didn’t see how. As we continued to climb, I said to Susan, “Have you taken this road?”
“Yes. I told you, I took the torture bus, Saigon to Hue. It was a nightmare. Almost as bad as this trip.”
“Right. Is this mountain road dangerous?”
“It’s breathtaking. There’s a single pass through the mountains called Hai Van Pass. In French it’s called Col des Nuages.”
“Cloudy Pass.”
“Oui.” She continued, “These mountains used to separate what was then all of Vietnam to the north from the kingdom of Champa that we just drove through. There’s a distinct weather difference on either side of the pass, especially now in the winter.”
“Is it snowing in Hue?”
“No, Paul. But it will be much colder on the other side of Cloudy Pass, and possibly raining. This is the northern boundary of the tropics.” She added, “I hope you brought something warm to wear.”
In fact, I did not. But I shouldn’t blame Karl or anyone for that. I’d been on the other side of the pass in January and February of ’68, and I recalled the rainy days and the cold nights. I said to Susan, “Do you have something to wear in that bottomless backpack?”
“No. I’ll shop.”
“Of course.”
We kept climbing up the mountain. To the left of the road was a steep wall of rock and to the right, not far from the wheels of the car, was a sheer dropoff into the South China Sea.
Susan said, “This is spectacular.”
Mr. Cam was not sightseeing, thank goodness, and I saw that his knuckles were white. I said to Susan, “Tell him to pull over. I’ll drive.”
“No. There are police at the top of the pass.”
We climbed to about five hundred meters elevation, judging by the water below. The mountain towering over us to the left was at least another thousand meters. If I had driven this last night in the dark, it would not have been fun.
After what seemed like a long time, we approached the top of Cloudy Pass. The terrain flattened out, and I could see old concrete bunkers and stone fortifications on both sides of the road.
We reached the summit of the pass, and there were more fortifications scattered around. There was also a tour bus, a few cars with Vietnamese drivers and Western tourists, dozens of kids selling souvenirs, and a police outpost with two yellow jeeps parked out front.
Mr. Cam said something, and Susan said to me, “He wants to know if you want to stop and take pictures.”
“Next time.”
“Everyone stops. We should stop. It will look less suspicious.”
“Tell him to pull over.”
He pulled over close to the precipice, which dropped down to a small peninsula that was the end of the mountain spur. I said to Susan, “Take a picture, and let’s get out of here.” I kept my eyes on the cops hanging around near their jeeps on the other side of the road. They were glancing at all the cars and the tourists, but seemed too lazy to cross the road. Then again, you never know.
About twenty kids descended on the Nissan, pushing useless and stupid souvenirs at the windows.
A few of the kids had these aluminum can origamis of Huey helicopters, and I was amazed that these things had been faithfully reproduced for almost thirty years since the Americans had left.
One kid was banging the window with this tin Huey, and I saw that on the side of the helicopter was a perfectly painted black and yellow First Cavalry insignia. I said, “I have to have that.”