Ramos knew some basic first aid, though he was no medic. He wrapped the Russian’s wound sufficiently to stanch the bleeding, while Lincoln cut him a crutch from a tree branch. Moving at a considerably slower pace than they’d come, they made their way back to the village that had been the search-and-destroy mission’s original objective. It was reportedly a local haven for VC activity, and with the sun rising in the eastern sky, it was easy to find by the smoke billowing from burning huts.
When they arrived with their prisoner, Captain Franklin was overseeing the digging of an enormous hole in the center of the village. Stacked around it were the explosives that would go inside once he was satisfied with it. He saw Lincoln coming and stepped away from the men with shovels.
“We found a whole warren of tunnels,” he said. “Killed or captured more than a hundred VC. We’re going to blow the place.”
Lincoln ticked his gaze toward the women and children standing to one side, under armed guard. “What about them? Where will they go?”
“I guess they’ll have to find new digs,” Franklin said. “Maybe next time they won’t let Charlie move in with them.” He eyed Lincoln’s prisoner. “Who’s that?”
Lincoln grinned. “Brought you a present. I don’t know his name—haven’t bothered to ask—but he’s a Russian. We found him being escorted away from the village by a dozen or so VC.”
“A Soviet agent, this far south?” Franklin sucked air through his teeth. “Washington’s gonna have a field day with this. They’re not supposed to be anywhere near here.”
“We’re just advising the army of our host nation. They asked for our help.”
“They pay for all those explosives?”
“We’ve been paying for this war since the 1950s, when the French were fighting it,” Franklin said. “Now we’re just more up front about it. Slightly more up front, anyway.”
“We have? I didn’t hear about that in school.”
“You didn’t hear it from me, either, Clay. Some things they don’t teach.”
“Maybe they should. I pay taxes like anybody else. Be nice to know how they’re bein’ spent.”
“What are you looking for in the military, Private?”
Lincoln dug the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Just, you know, doin’ my duty. Tryin’ to make it through each day.”
“You’re setting your sights too low. Man like you? You should be Special Forces. You want to be where the action is, right?”
“Special Forces? I don’t think I’m cut out for that. Don’t you need a diploma for that?”
“Just high school. You have that, right?”
Lincoln nodded. He had never considered the possibility of wearing the Green Beret. Even having this conversation felt like some strange dream. “Yeah,” he said.
“That’s what I thought. You could have a great military career ahead of you, Private Clay, but you’ve got to make the right moves. It doesn’t just happen—you’ve got to make it happen.”
Lincoln shook his head. He knew, from hard experience, how this went down. Guys like him, poor kids from Delray Hollow, were offered all kinds of things, only to have those chances vanish as soon as they got their hopes up. “I just don’t see it.”
“Clay, I’m not in the habit of blowing smoke up people’s asses,” Franklin said. “I think you could have a shot at it. If you want it. That’s the key. You’ve got to want it first.”
There had been plenty of things in his life that Lincoln had wanted. Some he had acquired; others had remained forever out of reach. But there was something about this idea he found appealing. “I’ve heard some stories about the Green Berets. They get to make their own rules. Go in where it’s hot and heat it up some more. Sounds all right to me.”
“Now you’re talking,” Franklin said.
“But I’m here. Doesn’t it take a year of training stateside to earn the beret?”
“Ordinarily, yes. But these aren’t ordinary times, Clay. This war’s going to ramp up fast, and we’re going to bear more and more of the burden, despite whatever Johnson and McNamara are saying on the evening news. We’re going to need good men. Let me see if I can pull some strings.”
Lincoln figured the man had some kind of angle, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be. People didn’t just offer to help each other out that way, not unless they got something in return.
“For me?”
Franklin put a hand on Lincoln’s broad shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. “Clay, you just found a Soviet agent ninety clicks from Saigon. If you’re not careful, you might get called to Washington so LBJ can pin a medal on your chest. And believe me, you don’t want to come to the attention of anybody in Washington. I’ll see what I can do to make sure your future is as a fighting man, not as a wooden Indian with a chestful of ribbons.”
• • •
Lincoln didn’t expect anything to come of the promise. He was just an infantry private who’d had a lucky break. And he still couldn’t see what Franklin would get out of it.
So he was surprised to find himself, two weeks later, on an airplane back to the World, as everybody stationed in Vietnam had taken to calling the US. As soon as Vietnam fell away below him, he was joined by a lean, rangy colonel whose raw-edged features could have been chopped from a log with a hatchet. He wore his beret at a rakish angle; bare scalp gleamed beneath it. He introduced himself as Philip Giunta. Lincoln could hear some Brooklyn in his accent, though it wasn’t strong.
“Thanks for agreeing to this assignment,” Giunta said, once the introductions were done.
“Did I agree to something?”
“According to Tom Franklin, you did. He made a strong case for you. It’s unusual, to say the least, but Tom has friends in high places.”
“Where exactly am I goin’?” Lincoln asked.
“Fort Benning, Georgia.”
“What’s at Fort Benning?”
“Jump school,” Giunta replied. “You’ll spend a week there, jumping out of airplanes under every condition you can imagine. Then it’s off to Fort Bragg for an abbreviated session of Special Warfare School. I understand you’ve already improvised some guerilla combat techniques, but they’ll teach you how it’s really done.”
Lincoln was confused. “Don’t I have to try out? Pass some kind of test and a background check?”
“You’ve already tested in, Private. And passed your background check. There were some findings that were, let’s say, concerning, but like I said, Captain Franklin was pulling for you, and he’s got connections I don’t even have. I’ll be honest—I don’t like ignoring protocol this way. I feel like if rules have been established about these things, it’s probably for good reason, and we ought to follow them.
“But the truth is that we’re going to need good Special Forces operatives faster than the school can turn them out. Every indication is that we’ll be in Vietnam for a while. The president sees Southeast Asia as a tipping point. If it falls to the commies, then we’ve lost Asia altogether. And he doesn’t want that to be his legacy.”
Lincoln knew that President Johnson had passed civil rights legislation, but he had thought it mostly applied to black folks like himself. He hadn’t given much thought to the president’s relationship with Asians, and he wasn’t sure Johnson had, either. “So now he’s concerned about the yellow man?” Lincoln asked.
“I can’t say for sure what’s driving him,” Giunta answered. “He’s a politician, so I’d guess he’s worried about being reelected, like the rest of them are. All I know is that we’re going to be committing more Special Forces to the region for the indefinite future.”
Lincoln wondered how in-depth the background check had been. His mother had abandoned him when he was two, and he’d been raised at Saint Michelle’s Home for Colored Boys until he was thirteen, when the city had decided that foster families were a better way to bring up orphans. Little black kids always seemed to be the last to be fostered, and he had occasionally doubted that he would ever have a family until Sammy and Perla Robinson had taken him in.
He had been in trouble with Father James at the orphanage now and again—fights, the occasional theft, drinking, a little pot. He’d been big for his age even then, and small kids weren’t the only ones bullied and picked on. And there was the fact that he was a black kid, growing up in the 1950s American South. Using the wrong water fountain or trying to swim in the wrong pool could earn a kid a beating, or worse. Father James had protected his charges from that sort of abuse, as much as he could, but he wasn’t always around when Lincoln was tearing about the city.
And even the most cursory background check would have revealed Sammy’s history. He came across as a successful businessman, but one didn’t have to dig very deep to see that much of what he earned came from running numbers, selling dope, pimping, and worse. Franklin’s contacts must have been impressive, indeed, to make the authorities overlook Lincoln’s role in those enterprises.
“So, what’s my security clearance?” he asked.
Giunta grimaced a little but tried to hide it. “Top Secret,” he said. “That’s standard for Green Berets.” He shifted in his seat, turning to face Lincoln. “Tom Franklin put his ass on the line for you, Clay. So did I, for that matter, by backing Tom up. I trust his judgment, and if he thinks you’re fit to wear the beret, then so do I. But I need to know you’ll honor it—honor the trust Tom and I put in you, and that the nation will put in you. We’ve got about twenty more hours before we land at Fort Benning, so you don’t need to answer me right now. But by the time we touch down, I’ll want to know if you’re in or not. If not . . . well, there’s always another plane heading back to ’Nam.”
He left Lincoln sitting alone and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft. The plane was largely empty—Lincoln had the impression this wasn’t a regularly scheduled flight, rather something that had been put together for his benefit. A few other GIs were scattered around, most lost in their own thoughts but some engaged in quiet card games or conversation. There wasn’t much else to do except sit, listen to the roar of the propellers, and think.
Truth be told, although he didn’t mind thinking, he thought doing too much of it was overrated at best and maybe harmful. Instead, he moved around in his seat until he was as comfortable as he could get, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
• • •
The evening air on the tarmac at Lawson Army Airfield was heavy and damp and smelled of diesel and exhaust. Lincoln was used to humidity; it was a staple of New Bordeaux summers, and Vietnam was more of the same. Despite the heat, he was hardly sweating as he walked toward the waiting trucks with his duffel bag in his hand.
Colonel Giunta strode up beside him. “What’s it going to be, Lincoln?” he asked. “There’s a Jeep over there that’ll take you to your barracks, if you’re staying. If not, there’s a plane sitting on the tarmac waiting to take off. Your call.”
“I’ll stay,” Lincoln said. “Might as well, right?”
“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.”
“I mean, the food here’s got to be better than the C rations I get back there.”
“You should spend some time in Saigon,” Giunta said. “The French taught those people how to cook. You can get some delicious Vietnamese food, and their French restaurants are as good as any in the world.”
“I’ll get there one of these days, Colonel. For now, I think I’d rather be where the action is.”
Giunta looked at him searchingly. Lincoln got the feeling he was waiting for something else—maybe some sort of declaration of patriotic altruism. But he’d gotten all Lincoln was going to give him, and he’d have to be satisfied with it. Giunta seemed to figure that out after a moment, because he gave a little half-shrug and turned away.
“Trust me,” he said, leading Lincoln toward a waiting Jeep. A soldier sat behind the wheel, one arm dangling casually outside. “You’ll definitely see some action after you earn your beret. Maybe more than you’re banking on.”
And Lincoln wondered, not for the first time, just what he was getting himself into.