Tâm’s final training exercise was her first official mission as a Communist fighter. Nam assigned her and three other recruits to monitor the main road to Ba Ria, the capital of Phuoc Tuy Province. The enemy had enough sense not to travel on the road at night, but if supplies or other transport between Saigon and Ba Ria were necessary, there could be traffic during the day.
Their mission was to set a booby trap and lie in wait for a supply truck, preferably a U.S. vehicle, but an ARVN was also acceptable. Or Australian. Aussie troops were in Vietnam supporting the South and the Americans. The team would plant an explosive device, which, when a truck passed, would detonate and destroy the truck. If for some reason the explosive did not detonate, the backup plan was to ambush the truck, shoot everyone in it, and liberate whatever supplies could be useful. Nam said they had the afternoon and night to plan.
By the time he finished describing the assignment, a cold sweat had crawled up Tâm’s back. Anxiety tightened her throat. The risks were enormous. What if they tried and failed? Would she be killed by the enemy? Or worse, if they failed and survived, would they be punished or even executed when they got back to camp? And what about the other three recruits? She knew the men; two were hardly more than boys. Nam was forcing strangers to trust one another with their lives with less than two weeks of training. No one was looking out for her. For the first time, Tâm questioned her decision to join the guerrillas.
She was swinging in one of the hammocks in the clearing, trying to push her doubts away. She was trying to remember everything they’d taught her about explosives and hand-to-hand combat when the other recruits found her. One, the only one who seemed close to her age, approached. She thought his name was Chinh.
“Good,” he said. “You’re here.”
Tâm said. “Yes. I am—Biên.” Nam had told them they must always use a pseudonym when they were in the field or conducting business with one another. It was their “Party name.” They should never reveal their real names when they were Communist fighters.
“You?” She motioned with her chin to all three of them.
“I am Chinh.” Tall and sturdy, he was clearly the leader. She assumed that was his Party name.
“Trai.” Younger than Chinh, he was long-limbed but thin and his hair was cut short.
“Hiền.” He looked to be younger than the others. Barely in his teens, she thought, with a mop of long hair that partially covered his eyes.
Chinh took in a breath. It puffed out his chest. “I have the plan,” he said.
Tâm lifted her eyebrows. She hoped he did, because she certainly didn’t. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s simple, actually,” Chinh said. “We dig a spider hole in the middle of the road. Build or find the explosive and connect it to a trip wire. Lower it into the spider hole. When the truck rolls over the hole, the explosive will detonate, and we’re done.”
She noticed the younger boys nodding and smiling as Chinh described the plan. They wanted to believe Chinh knew what he was talking about. They weren’t going to like what she was going to say.
“Hmm,” Tâm said. “It is ambitious. But it will not work.”
Chinh went rigid. “What do you mean it won’t work?”
“It relies too much on chance. What if the truck tire does not roll over the spider hole? Its wheels could be riding on the edge of the road rather than the center. Which means it would avoid the spider hole altogether.” She paused. “There is something else.” She kept her voice neutral; she did not want to alienate him or the boys. They had to work together. “If the truck avoids the spider hole, it may not slow down, which would make an ambush impossible, and we will fail.”
Chinh crossed his arms. “If you know so much, what do you suggest?”
She pasted on a smile, which she hoped looked conciliatory. “I’m not sure, but why don’t we try to solve one problem at a time. For example, do you agree we need to set the trip wire or whatever we use to connect the explosive to the detonator across the entire width of the road?”
Chinh frowned. “And if I say yes?”
“It means we cannot use the main road. It is paved. We need a road that is not paved to dig a trench. And in order to find one, we need a map of the area.” She motioned to Hiền. “Can you get one?”
“Where?” Hiền looked blank.
“Ask Nam. If he doesn’t know, we can ask the NLF officer when he comes this afternoon.”
“Then what?” Trai said.
The outline of a plan came to her. It wasn’t firm, but hopefully they would clarify it together. She rose from the hammock, found a stick on the ground, and started to make lines in the dirt. “Here is what I’m thinking.”
About a kilometer down the paved road was an intersection with a dirt road; on the west side, according to the map Hiền got from Nam, this dirt road took a winding path through several villages that were controlled by the Communists—which meant the chances of blowing up an American vehicle there were slim. The truck’s occupants undoubtedly would know where the enemy infiltration was. They would never turn west and take the chance of being ambushed. On the east side, however, the road seemed to peter out in the jungle.
“If we can provide some sort of diversion that forces them to turn east . . .” Tâm made eye contact with Chinh, raised her eyebrows, and let her voice trail off.
“A diversion . . .” Chinh said. “Yes.”
They brainstormed for hours. Even if they could stop traffic, there was no reason a truck driver would take the chance of turning off the only secure road in the province. “What if Trai and I wore South Vietnamese uniforms?” Hiền suggested. “Wouldn’t that help?”
Tâm shrugged. “Not necessarily. They’re not stupid. They could see it as a ruse.”
“Well, what, then?”
She concentrated. “Something nonmilitary. Perhaps something that involves villagers. You know, a family.”
“We don’t know any villagers,” Trai said.
Tâm thought about it. Then she grinned. “So we pretend. I will be the wife. You, Chinh, are my husband. You block the road. Wave your hands frantically. Call out for help. I am in an oxcart beside you. You tell them there has been an ambush ahead on the paved road, and I have been injured. You need to get me home so you can dress my wounds. You tell them they must not keep going down the paved road. That they will be ambushed too. And they should not turn west because they will run into Communist-controlled villages. That will help persuade them that we are loyal South Vietnamese.”
Chinh cut in. “Yes. I see. But, they may not know what to do. What if they turn around and return the way they came?”
“Yes . . .” Tâm looked at each of the men in turn. “But even if they try, they will need to stop the truck to talk to us. At least slow down.”
Chinh smiled. “So we place the explosive as close to the main road as we can. One of you”—he pointed to Trai—“will stay deep in the bush so you will not be hurt by the blast. I will stay on the main road and beg for help. Biên will cry out as if she is severely wounded.”
“Exactly,” Tâm said. “Meanwhile Hiền stays hidden at the edge of the road.” She turned to him. “You wait until the truck slows down or they turn east off the main road. Once they do, you give Trai the signal. Maybe one of the birdcalls we’ve been practicing. He will detonate the explosive by touching the wire we have strung from the booby trap to the battery.”
She turned back to Chinh. “What do you think?”
Grudgingly Chinh nodded. “It has a chance. But the timing is critical. Trai, you will be in the bush with the trip wire. And you, Hiền, are the most important. You will tell him when to touch the wire to the detonator.”
They both nodded vigorously.
Tâm said, “Meanwhile we can hide our rifles under some blankets in the oxcart. You two have yours at your sides. If the shell does not go off, we shoot.”
“But where will we find an oxcart?” Hiền asked.
“We’ll get one from the villagers who bring us food at night.” Friendly villagers appeared almost every night with huge bowls of phở, bread, and fruit for the recruits. Tâm thought of her parents, who had done the same thing. What would they think if they knew their eldest daughter was now one of them?
Chinh ran a worried hand through his hair. “Wait. What about our safety? Won’t we be clipped by the blast if we’re on the road?”
Tâm showed him with her stick. “We should be okay if we are to the west, this side, of the paved road. Here.” She marked it with her stick. “That’s why you are the critical link.” She hesitated. “You must persuade them to slow down and turn east. Wave your arms. Yell at them.” She demonstrated. Then she turned to Trai and Hiền. “You two should not be seen. Under any circumstance. Just stay where you are and wait for the truck to turn. Then Hiền, you signal Trai.”
Chinh clapped his hands, his rancor gone. “Yes. That’s it! It’s good. Now let us divide up the tasks.”