The Tunnel Rats (38 page)

'I don't understand this business about levels,' said Wright.

'I'll be able to show you better on the map,' said the FBI agent. 'But basically the upper levels were communication tunnels, linking villages, firing posts and all the trapdoor entrances. They were usually about ten to fifteen feet down. There are trapdoors leading down from the communication levels to the second level, about thirty feet below the surface. That's where they had sleeping chambers, air-raid shelters, training rooms and hospitals. Even further down, forty or fifty feet, were the command headquarters and storage areas.'

'Sounds like a whole city underground.'

'It was, Nick. At one point there were supposed to be something like twelve thousand VCs based in the various tunnel networks.'

A stewardess interrupted their conversation, asking them to put up their tray tables and to make sure that their seatbelts were fastened as they were preparing to land. Wright wiped his face with the cold towel. He was still sweating. He stared out of the window at the rice fields below and wondered what it would be like to be deep below the surface, crawling through the earth like a tunnelling animal. He shivered.

Sergio Ramirez and Bernie Hammack were already sitting around a wrought-iron table with cups of coffee in front of them when Doc walked on to the terrace. They had ordered a cup for him and it sat with its aluminium coffee dripper on top of it. He lifted the dripper off and poured milk into the inky-black brew.

'Rooms okay?' asked Doc. He sipped his coffee. It was bitter and strong.

'Hard to believe it's Saigon,' said Hammack. 'It's as good as anything in Bangkok.'

'And they speak better English,' said Ramirez.

A group of Japanese businessmen were sitting at a neighbouring table, peering at a blueprint. Two Chinese entrepreneurs in polo shirts and Chinos slurped noodles and argued over a balance sheet. Doc could almost smell the money being made. The terrace bar THE TUNNEL RATS 271 was tacky in the extreme, with garishly painted statues of animals, including two grey elephants and a white horse, standing amid tubs of ornately clipped bushes, and around the perimeter of the roof faded flags fluttered gently in the wind. At the far end of the terrace was a statue of a crouching Oriental archer, drawing back his bow. A Japanese girl posed next to it while her boyfriend snapped away with a small camera.

'I've booked the rooms for three days,' said Doc. 'I expect to be back here tomorrow, so if everything goes smoothly we can have a couple of days R and R.'

'If,' said Hammack. 'That's a big if, Doc'

'We go down, we check it's still there, and we come back.'

'And if he's not there?' said Hammack. 'If he's not dead?'

'Then I'll eat my fucking hat, Bernie.'

'That's not what we should be worrying about,' said Ramirez. 'If he's not dead, if he is the killer, then it's going to be easy enough to protect ourselves. But if it's not him, then we have a big, big problem. Who killed Eric, Max and Dennis?'

'Dennis was an accident,' said Doc.

'Maybe,' said Hammack. 'But the point is, someone knows what we did. And someone wants to make us pay.'

'Whatever, we take this one step at a time. And step one is to get ourself equipped. There's a market not far away where we can get everything we need.' He took a sheet of paper from the pocket of his denim shirt and dropped it on the table in front of Ramirez and Hammack. 'I've drawn up a list of what I think we'll need. Can you see anything I've missed?'

Ramirez ran his finger down the list. 'A double-action Smith & Wesson .44 magnum would be nice,' he said.

Doc smiled thinly. 'Much as I'd like to oblige, short of stealing one, we're not going to get a gun.'

'String,' said Hammack. 'You forgot the string. And rope.'

Doc took a pen out of his pocket and added string and rope to the list.

'How are we getting up to the tunnels?' asked Ramirez.

'Bikes,' said Doc. He smiled when he saw the look of disbelief on Ramirez's face. 'Motorbikes,' he clarified. 'Foreigners can't hire cars without a local driver, but we can rent motorbikes. I 272 STEPHEN LEATHER asked reception and there's a place around the corner that can help us.'

The three Americans went down together in the lift and walked through the marble-floored foyer where a group of Taiwanese tourists were checking in. There was a line of white Toyota taxis outside the hotel and they climbed into the first one. Doc told the driver where they wanted to go and he smiled and flicked on the meter. It was, thought Doc, a pleasant change from Bangkok where more often than not getting into a taxi meant several minutes of bargaining, depending on how heavy the traffic was and whether the driver wanted to go in a particular direction.

'You tourists?' asked the dfrver. He was in his fifties with greying, spiky hair and skin that was as leathery and weatherbeaten as an old saddle.

'Sort of,' said Doc.

The driver looked at them in his rearview mirror as he negotiated a way through several dozen bicycling schoolchildren.

'You here during war?' he asked.

The Americans looked at each other. Doc shrugged. 'Yeah,' he said.

'American GIs, Number One!' he cackled.

They passed two cyclos, hybrids of bicycles and rickshaws, with two thin Vietnamese teenagers pedalling hard up an incline, ferrying two obese tourists in T-shirts and shorts who were filming each other with video cameras. A beautiful young girl in a pale green ao dai and black evening gloves drove by on a Honda moped. She smiled at Ramirez and he beamed back.

'You were a soldier?' asked Hammack.

'Damn right,' said the driver, cackling again.

'What, with ARVN?' The Army of the Republic of South Vietnam. The soldiers who were supposed to be fighting alongside the Americans, but who more often than not proved to be a liability rather than an asset.

The driver laughed louder. 'No, me VC!' he said, thumping his chest.

'You've got to be joking,' said Ramirez. '

'VC. Damn right!' He twisted around in his seat. 'We won, huh?'

'Yes, you did,' said Doc. He looked across at his two companions. Hammack and Ramirez sat stony faced, their arms folded across their chests.

The driver dropped them in front of a bustling market with stalls bedecked with clothes and shoes, vendors selling food, and tables strewn with cheap plastic toys. The three Americans threaded their way through to the rear of the indoor market where most of the clothing was in camouflage fabric and the plastic toys and electrical equipment gave way to war surplus equipment. There were lines of old gas masks, combat boots, webbing belts, canteens, flashlights; enough equipment to outfit an army. Hammack and Ramirez stood with surprised looks on their faces.

'How did you find out about this place?' asked Hammack.

'It's in the guide book, believe it or not,' said Doc. 'Dan Sinh Market. Most of it is reproduction, tourists love it.'

Ramirez was looking at a rack of field stretchers and a medical kit with a red cross on it. 'This looks genuine,' he said.

'Some of it is, but a lot of it is made here.'

Ramirez tossed him the medical kit and Doc opened it. Inside were bandages, dressings, sutures and hypodermics. The quality looked as good as anything he had back in his surgery in Bangkok. He wondered whether buying it would be taken as a bad omen by his two companions, but he decided that it would be essential, to deal with the cuts and bruises they'd get just negotiating the tunnels. He bought it, along with several tubes of antiseptic ointment and mosquito repellent from a neighbouring stall.

The three Americans chose the clothing they'd wear, all opting for T-shirts and lightweight cotton trousers, knowing how hot it would get underground. They selected small nylon rucksacks, checking them for fit, and plastic canteens because they'd sweat like crazy and dehydration would be one of their biggest problems.

Ramirez found a stall selling knives and they argued for a while over which would be the best type to buy. Ramirez wanted a killing weapon, but Doc's view was that they'd be most useful for probing for booby traps and hidden trapdoors. Eventually they agreed to differ: Ramirez selected a large hunting knife, Doc chose a bayonet-type knife and Hammack a smaller weapon in a plastic scabbard. A neighbouring stall sold compasses, including 274 STEPHEN LEATHER several aviation models that appeared to have been stripped from planes. They chose the most rugged and easy-to-read models they could find.

Doc took out a pen and crossed off the items they'd purchased. 'Flashlights,' he said.

They bought flashlights and spare batteries, three green canvas kitbags with 'USMC stamped on them, and the rest of the equipment that was on the list. The last thing that Doc bought was a small folding shovel. Hammack and Ramirez looked away as Doc put it in one of the kitbags with the rest of his purchases.

It took Nick Wright and Jim Bamber more than an hour to pass through immigration, and it was another hour before their bags rolled out on to the carousel. They carried their bags over to Customs where two green-uniformed young women with waist-length hair helped load them through an X-ray machine.

'This doesn't make sense,' said Wright. 'Shouldn't they be X-raying luggage before it goes on the plane?'

'It's not about safety, it's about contraband,' said Bamber. 'There's a lot of duty imposed on stuff brought into the country, computers and the like.'

One of the girls pointed at Bamber's case as it rolled out of the X-ray machine. 'I bet I know what this is about,' he sighed. He popped the locks and opened the case. She went through his clothes and pulled out the two sets of infra-red goggles. Bamber smiled easily. 'Binoculars,' he said, miming putting a pair to his eyes and looking through them. 'For night-time. For watching birds at nighttime.'

She held out her hand for the Customs form he was holding. Wright's suitcase emerged from the X-ray machine and a middle-aged man with a squint motioned for Wright to open it. He riffled through the contents and took out Wright's portable telephone and charging unit.

'You have receipt?' the girl asked Bamber. The FBI agent shook his head. She pointed at the form. 'You have to put down how much they cost.'

Her colleague held Wright's form a few inches away from his face. 'Fill in form properly,' he said.

Wright borrowed Bamber's pen, detailed the phone and charging unit on the back of the form. They handed over their forms and were told they could go. They walked out into the arrivals area.

'Are we going to hire a car?' asked Wright.

'No can do,' said Bamber. 'Guide book says you can't drive here. Cops'll stop any foreigner they see at the wheel. We have to take a taxi.'

They went outside and Wright was hit by a wave of heat and humidity that made him gasp. 'Jeez! It's hotter even than Bangkok, and Bangkok was sweltering,' said Wright. He put down his suitcase and holdall and surveyed the line of gleaming white Toyotas. 'One of them?' he asked.

Bamber rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Might be a bit suspicious climbing into a cab here and heading straight out into the country,' he said. 'I reckon we should go to Saigon and switch cars there.'

'Whatever,' said Wright. Bamber seemed to know what he was doing so Wright was happy to let him take charge. Wright was having trouble concentrating - all he could think about was the tunnels.

Hammack kicked his motorcycle into life and blipped the throttle. 'Sounds sweet,' he said.

Hammack was sitting astride a Yamaha trail bike, his kitbag tied to the back. Doc and Ramirez were on fairly new Honda trail bikes, the wheels of which were crusted with mud. All three Americans were wearing jeans and white cotton shirts with the sleeves buttoned at the wrist to provide protection from the sun, and they had rented gloves and full-face helmets with tinted visors from the man who'd supplied the bikes.

Ramirez gave Doc a thumbs-up. 'Rock and roll,' he said.

'Remember, the roads can be dangerous, so we take it slow 276 STEPHEN LEATHER and watch out for potholes,' said Doc. 'I don't want to have to do any needlework on the way up, okay?'

Hammack and Ramirez nodded.

Doc flicked his visor down and led the way out of the shop, bumping carefully off the pavement and on to the road. Hammack and Ramirez followed. The three motorcyclists headed north, nudging their way through the battalions of cyclists and moped riders.

A red Isuzu turned out of a side street and headed after them.

'/^\ kay, stop here,' said Bamber, tapping the taxi driver on the V>/shoulder. At the roadside was a line of shabby cars, and a group of Vietnamese men stood in the shade of a tree, watching a flickering television fixed to the inside wall of one of the shops that lined the road.

Bamber paid the driver with a handful of Vietnamese currency as Wright climbed out. The two men put their suitcases and holdalls on the pavement and watched their taxi drive away.

'Now what?' asked Wright.

'I'm pretty sure these guys are for hire,' said Bamber.

'They don't have taxi signs,' said Wright.

Two of the men who'd been watching television walked over. 'You want car?' the taller of the two asked.

Bamber winked at Wright. 'Told you.' He nodded at the car at the head of the queue, a Mercedes with rusty wings that must have been at least twenty years old. 'How much for one day?'

The two men spoke to each other in Vietnamese. The shorter one shook his head. 'Where you want to go?'

'North,' said Bamber. 'Past Ben Sue, up by the Thi Tinh River.'

The two men pulled faces and shrugged. 'One hundred and twenty dollars for one day,' said the shorter one.

'Eighty,' said Bamber.

'One hundred,' said the man.

Bamber nodded. 'Okay.' He grinned at Wright. 'What the hell, the Bureau's picking up the check, right?'

Wright picked up his suitcase. The man already had the boot open and he helped Wright heave it in. 'My name Chinh,' he said.

'I'm Nick. He's Jim.'

'Nick. Jim.' The driver said their names several times as if trying to commit them to memory as he loaded Bamber's metal suitcase on top of Wright's. Bamber and Wright got into the back of the car with their holdalls. The driver went into one of the roadside shops and emerged with a carrier bag containing two plastic bottles of mineral water. He handed them to Wright and started the car. Clouds of black smoke billowed from the exhaust and the engine coughed, backfired, then roared. 'Diesel,' said the driver. 'Okay soon. Where we go?'