but first she had
to get Triet's information out of him. Nhu An depended on it.
Amai stumbled
over the rough pavement. One thing was certain: the constant violence which had
owned Triet since childhood had driven him mad. He would do anything to beat
the Americans; nothing was too much; no price was too high.
Her body was
numb. Triet had revealed his true nature - and it was horrifying.
The aggregate in
the grimy footpath became her focus as she bumped through the foot traffic. Her
mind traveled back in time to a bubbling stream, bright-green rice paddies, and
her family home, standing on its stilts above the monsoon flooded land.
Homesickness
overwhelmed her.
She thought of
Nhu An - a small, beautiful, energetic child.
I hate this
war.
She looked up
and saw two Military jeeps crawling toward her. A rush of fright hit her and
she swerved into a narrow lane.
Calm down.
The lane wasn't
really a lane at all; just a gap of a few feet between a warehouse and a
factory. Above, a heavy loom of electrical wires sagged from metal brackets
bolted to the brickwork. The lane felt creepy. Amai stepped up her pace. She
figured the lane would bring her out close to Cam 's building anyway; a run-down French-colonial of three floors,
which bordered the docks.
Cam , she thought. I need you.
The last time
Amai had seen her forty year old sister, her glossy hair had acquired natural
silver highlights, and the finest of crinkles had appeared at the outer corners
of her eyes.
Cam was psychic. She lived a strange life of meditation and mantras and
warning people of future dangers, storms, and illness. During the French War,
General Giap had used Cam 's
remote-viewing skills to gather intelligence. Her ability had been embraced by
the Viet Minh Commanders of the time, but now Cam worked as a legman for an undercover spy at Time magazine.
Amai looked back
over her shoulder. A jeep had stopped across the lane; and when she looked back
to the front again, she knew that she had a problem. She had reached the lane's
midpoint, and the scene that confronted her was horrific, but not uncommon.
In a concealed
alcove, a girl-child of about Nhu An's age sat watching a man beat blood from
her mother's face. The man's uniform identified him as one of General Loan's.
Simultaneously,
Amai felt shock, acceptance, revulsion, and fright.
She looked back
to the jeep. Two soldiers jumped out and began marching toward her. She turned
back to the beating, trying to think of a way to stop it without getting beaten
herself. Then Amai saw several neatly stacked boxes of stolen US Army grenades.
The woman was Viet Cong.
Amai took a step
forward and Loan's man turned and saw her.
She thought: He's
going to bash my face in .
He came away
from his work and started toward her. She assessed his face: his expression was
blank.
He doesn't
recognize me.
Amai took a step
back, but there was nowhere to go. She would have to talk her way out of it.
He said: 'What
do you want?'
She gave him her
sexiest pout and pointed to the end of the lane. 'Just passing.'
Her charm had no
obvious effect.
He kept coming.
'Who are you? Tell me your name.'
Amai looked over
his boney shoulder, and to her delight, the mother grabbed the girl's wrist and
pulled her through a green door and into the warehouse beyond.
Loan's man
turned, saw that his prisoners had gone, and rushed back to the alcove.
Amai saw her
chance to escape and started to run.
The man spun and
grabbed for Amai's arm. She swerved and bumped a trashcan, which fell to the
ground, spilling trash and a big, grey rat. The rat ran away, hugging the wall.
Amai ran as hard
as she could. She heard the men from the jeep and yell out.
Will they
shoot? She thought.
The sound took
several seconds to come, but it was not like the sound of any gun that she had
heard: it was a loud wallop that echoed past her and out into the street
beyond. Amai turned to see the lane filling with a thick cloud of
to get Triet's information out of him. Nhu An depended on it.
Amai stumbled
over the rough pavement. One thing was certain: the constant violence which had
owned Triet since childhood had driven him mad. He would do anything to beat
the Americans; nothing was too much; no price was too high.
Her body was
numb. Triet had revealed his true nature - and it was horrifying.
The aggregate in
the grimy footpath became her focus as she bumped through the foot traffic. Her
mind traveled back in time to a bubbling stream, bright-green rice paddies, and
her family home, standing on its stilts above the monsoon flooded land.
Homesickness
overwhelmed her.
She thought of
Nhu An - a small, beautiful, energetic child.
I hate this
war.
She looked up
and saw two Military jeeps crawling toward her. A rush of fright hit her and
she swerved into a narrow lane.
Calm down.
The lane wasn't
really a lane at all; just a gap of a few feet between a warehouse and a
factory. Above, a heavy loom of electrical wires sagged from metal brackets
bolted to the brickwork. The lane felt creepy. Amai stepped up her pace. She
figured the lane would bring her out close to Cam 's building anyway; a run-down French-colonial of three floors,
which bordered the docks.
Cam , she thought. I need you.
The last time
Amai had seen her forty year old sister, her glossy hair had acquired natural
silver highlights, and the finest of crinkles had appeared at the outer corners
of her eyes.
Cam was psychic. She lived a strange life of meditation and mantras and
warning people of future dangers, storms, and illness. During the French War,
General Giap had used Cam 's
remote-viewing skills to gather intelligence. Her ability had been embraced by
the Viet Minh Commanders of the time, but now Cam worked as a legman for an undercover spy at Time magazine.
Amai looked back
over her shoulder. A jeep had stopped across the lane; and when she looked back
to the front again, she knew that she had a problem. She had reached the lane's
midpoint, and the scene that confronted her was horrific, but not uncommon.
In a concealed
alcove, a girl-child of about Nhu An's age sat watching a man beat blood from
her mother's face. The man's uniform identified him as one of General Loan's.
Simultaneously,
Amai felt shock, acceptance, revulsion, and fright.
She looked back
to the jeep. Two soldiers jumped out and began marching toward her. She turned
back to the beating, trying to think of a way to stop it without getting beaten
herself. Then Amai saw several neatly stacked boxes of stolen US Army grenades.
The woman was Viet Cong.
Amai took a step
forward and Loan's man turned and saw her.
She thought: He's
going to bash my face in .
He came away
from his work and started toward her. She assessed his face: his expression was
blank.
He doesn't
recognize me.
Amai took a step
back, but there was nowhere to go. She would have to talk her way out of it.
He said: 'What
do you want?'
She gave him her
sexiest pout and pointed to the end of the lane. 'Just passing.'
Her charm had no
obvious effect.
He kept coming.
'Who are you? Tell me your name.'
Amai looked over
his boney shoulder, and to her delight, the mother grabbed the girl's wrist and
pulled her through a green door and into the warehouse beyond.
Loan's man
turned, saw that his prisoners had gone, and rushed back to the alcove.
Amai saw her
chance to escape and started to run.
The man spun and
grabbed for Amai's arm. She swerved and bumped a trashcan, which fell to the
ground, spilling trash and a big, grey rat. The rat ran away, hugging the wall.
Amai ran as hard
as she could. She heard the men from the jeep and yell out.
Will they
shoot? She thought.
The sound took
several seconds to come, but it was not like the sound of any gun that she had
heard: it was a loud wallop that echoed past her and out into the street
beyond. Amai turned to see the lane filling with a thick cloud of
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